


Ours is the Night

by theangryuniverse



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Alternative Universe - Vampires, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Katsuki Yuuri, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Good vs Evil, Gothic, Human/Vampire Relationship, M/M, Murder Mystery, Period-Typical Racism, Psychologist Christophe Giacometti, Questioning longheld beliefs, Revenge, Vampire Hunter Victor Nikiforov, Vampire Katsuki Yuuri, Vampire Phichit Chulanont, immortality is a bitch, victorian london
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:35:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 31,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24270700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangryuniverse/pseuds/theangryuniverse
Summary: England, 1885.Victor Nikiforov comes to London in the stormiest of weather, and it seems as if Hell followed with him. London is dark, and dirty, just as it is mysterious. But Victor Nikiforov does not like mysteries. He is a man of facts.And he knows that it is a fact that among them are the living dead, and that the night is their territory.However, there is one amongst them that searches for a way back into the light. As a series of brutal murders shake the city, the underworld comes to life - and Victor begins to wonder if what he has been taught might have been nothing but lies.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Phichit Chulanont/Christophe Giacometti
Comments: 66
Kudos: 112





	1. Prologue: Nosferatu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmHunter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmHunter/gifts), [FrozenBrownie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenBrownie/gifts).



> This fic was meant to be my contribution to YOI Regency Week 2020. Then the pandemic happened and I was incredibly overwhelmed by everything. I couldn't finish this fic. As of May 2020, prologue and chapter 1 are completely finished, the rest consists of MASSIVE notes. I just have to write it down in proper prose.
> 
> But these times are difficult, and I wanted to share this piece with you, even if it is just little that I've got so far. 
> 
> I don't know when I will update, and those of you that have read my stuff before know that I don't do update schedules - simply because I cannot keep them due to university and other duties. But I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless.
> 
> Every chapter has a song as its title, for the right "setting". Click the link and listen to it! Some of them are in German or other languages, but don't worry. It's just to get the aesthetic across.

>>[ **Prologue: Nosferatu**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJX1cMycbko)<<

* * *

It is the first time that Phichit sees a vampire burn.

From where they stand between the dunes, they can see the fire well, the flames that burst from the vampire’s body as he turns to ash. There are no cries falling from his lips. The only sounds are the crashing of the waves, and the terrified whimper of the young vampire that stands beside Yuuri and clutches his arm.

Had he been human, his bone would have been crushed to pieces in his grip.

But Yuuri is not human, and neither is Phichit, and they watch as their friend submits to the sun after a long life in death. Yuuri had known that his old friend was preparing to die the moment they set eyes on him. He had been weak, had been without blood for months, all for this moment. Simple rays of sunshine could not kill a vampire in a healthy state.

One has to deliberately suffer, and weaken the body, in order for the sun to become the bringer of death.

To stay with a dying vampire is a great honour.

Not that Yuuri would have left his friend alone either way.

He has seen death many times, but it is rare that life, in the shape of the sun, comes to bring it.

The flames flicker high as it eats away clothes, then hair, then skin, until the vampire’s old bones turn into ashes and are carried away with the wind, until nothing is left.

Beside Yuuri, Phichit clamps his hand over his mouth to hold back the horror that is washing over him.

Yuuri cannot blame him for feeling that way.

He turns away, walking away from the dunes. He can hear Phichit follow him, hears him breathe and swallow thickly, distraught by what he has seen.

The carriage waits for them down the path, and they discreetly climb in and shut the door. The day is approaching fast, and they have both been out for far too long.

And Phichit, Yuuri knows as he looks at his protégé, should not be out in his current state.

“I don’t understand,” Phichit whispers. “I don’t understand why.”

Yuuri briefly glances at him. “Sometimes, it is better to die right away, instead of dying a little bit every single day. Not that our kind has a choice in said matter.”

Phichit does not look as if he understands, but then again, he is young in this life, and he has not grown tired of death. But he understands the essence of this life. Yuuri made sure that he does. He clasps his hands on his lap and looks out of the window, watching the ever-rising sun on the horizon.

“For too long, we have been cursed,” Yuuri murmurs, and he has said those words many times, has tried to make sure that Phichit understands. “We have been cursed by Nosferatu. The child that they carry to the grave because of us won’t be the last. But one day, we will strike back, and we will break Nosferatu’s curse. One day, our flesh and bones will be able to rot again.”

Phichit does not reply, but wraps his cloak tighter around himself.

He is young.

He does not understand.

But he listens to his master’s words, and tries not to think of the ashes, and their smell in the wind.

* * *

The room is almost empty by now, looking as if no one had ever truly lived in it. The things that Victor has ever owned are now in an open suitcase that lies on top of his bed. His clothes are neatly folded, his books carefully put away, ready for the journey that awaits him. It will be long, and it will be exhausting, but it has a purpose.

The purpose to end all future purposes.

It is what will free him.

The final item he puts into his suitcase is the photograph he has always kept on his bedside table. He picks it up and pauses.

Victor looks down at the photograph in his hands, cradles the only image of his parents that he has left, and presses it against his chest. Their voices have gone silent many years ago, and he will never hear them again. Their smiles are frozen, their eyes grey and gone cold, the photograph nothing but a shadow of their existence.

Victor remembers the day well.

Yakov’s hand on his shoulder as he told him the truth about the world. Victor had been a child only, but that had not kept Yakov from telling him the truth about his parents, and about their death.

That night, Victor’s childhood had ended.

But he has never forgotten what Yakov had told him at last:

“For too long, we have been cursed. We have been cursed by Nosferatu. The child that we will carry to the grave will not be the last. But one day, you will strike back. And you will destroy Nosferatu. And his flesh will rot, and his bones, too.”

Victor closes his eyes for a moment before he puts the photograph between his folded clothes and closes his suitcase. His hands rest on top of it for a while, taking a few, even breaths before he repeats the words that have been his entire life since the day his childhood died.

“But one day, I will strike back, and I will destroy Nosferatu. And his flesh will rot, and his bones, too.”


	2. Look Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I add tags and shit as I go. So please, PLEASE always check the tags, and don't yell at me if there's something you didn't like (but please do yell if I forgot a tag).

**> >[Look Down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozp0LBUFq24)<<**

* * *

Victor Nikiforov comes to London in the stormiest of weather, and it seems as if Hell followed with him. The rain hits the windows of the carriage, just as hard as the wind shakes it, tossing it around as if it were weightless, the horses so terrified of nature’s forces that the driver struggles to keep them tamed. The streets are deserted, the poor souls that are homeless huddled together in the narrow alleys and backstreets, only a few eyes following the carriage as it drives past them, wondering who it is that travels in such a weather, and does not seek shelter. But Victor Nikiforov is used to the forces of nature, and cares little for the rain. Neither does he care for the city outside, only ever looking down at the pocket watch he holds in his hands, as he counts the minutes, and pays attention to the number of corners they turn at. First, there is lightning, and then, there is thunder, and Victor can hear the horses panic and the carriage shake, but he trusts his driver. He has paid him well, and expects him to take him to his destination in this godforsaken place.

London is dark, and dirty, just as it is mysterious. But Victor Nikiforov does not like mysteries.

He is a man of facts.

And he knows that it is a fact that among them are the living dead, and that the night is their territory.

The carriage comes to a screeching halt all of a sudden, and through the heavy rain Victor can see the lights behind the windows of the house they have stopped at. He does not wait for the driver, but opens the door of the carriage himself, stepping out into the rain and walks up the few steps to ring the bell. Within seconds, a maid lets him in, and Victor shuts out the rain.

Peaceful silence embraces him the moment the door closes behind him, and warmth, too. There is a fire, somewhere, in one of the rooms to his right, he supposes, and more fires downstairs in the kitchen. The whole house is filled with the very warmth that keeps the evil away, and only upon realising that, Victor exhales.

He opens his eyes and takes off his tophat, placing it in the hand of the maid as he hears footsteps approaching the hall. A moment later, a woman comes out, small and sturdy and plain, her face wrinkled and her complexion fair, and her eyes of a light grey that reminds Victor of the watery snow in St. Petersburg.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” she says and holds up the candle she carries. “Welcome to London. I was not sure if you would be able to make it in this weather.”

“Mrs. Fairfax,” he says and inclines his head to her in greeting. “I would have sent a telegram if I had been forced to seek shelter on the way. But I was determined to make it to my destination.”

“We are glad to have you here,” she replies with a small smile, and Victor suspects that she is the kind of woman that would easily mother him if he let her. But he has no intention of becoming _that_ comfortable in London. He will stay for as long as it is necessary.

“You must be hungry,” she continues. “Dinner has been kept warm for you. Would you like to take a bath afterwards?”

“That would be wonderful, Madam,” Victor says and follows the woman that is to be his landlady through the door she has left ajar into what seems to be her salon. It is the typical home of a widow, Victor thinks as he takes off his coat and gives it to the maid as well. Framed photographs of people long gone, a basket with needlework, books to be read for pleasure. A fire in the fireplace.

Mrs. Fairfax leads him to the table as another maid brings in the soup, a meal so simple but the right food after being out in terrible weather conditions. Each spoonful warms Victor from within, and thankfully, Mrs. Fairfax is quiet as she sits on the sofa with her needlework, the only sounds the crackling fire and the rattling windows.

“Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Fairfax,” Victor says once he is done, and the woman smiles at him.

“You are welcome,” she says, putting down her work. “I hope it was enough.”

“It was, thank you.” Victor rises from the table. “But if you don’t mind, I would like to retire now to take that bath.”

The woman nods, thankfully not too keen on making pleasant conversation with him just now. She can sense that she is tired, and acts accordingly, and Victor is grateful for that. And so, she picks up her candle again and leads him upstairs to his own lodgings.

It is a small apartment on the first floor, with its own bathroom, a bedroom, a drawing room and even a small kitchen for his own use. That alone tells him that Mrs. Fairfax, owning such a house in such a location, must be a wealthy widow, and most likely not in need of a tenant. But like many widows, she probably wants company, and the sound of other people in the house that are not servants.

“Clarice has drawn you a bath,” Mrs. Fairfax says, and Victor spots his coat and hat on a hanger by the fire to dry. “Should you need anything, do not hesitate to tell me.”

Victor nods, turning around to the woman. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Mrs. Fairfax smiles. “Anything for the League,” she says, and then she leaves him alone in his new home.

Victor goes to the bedroom first, glad to see his luggage sitting in a corner and his clothes in the wardrobe already. He undresses and leaves the worn clothes on a chair for the maid to take away in the morning and steps into the bathroom nude, the steam still rising from the bath tub as he sinks into it, and closes his eyes.

Mrs. Fairfax does not know what the League does, or who its members usually are, but Victor is sure she has her suspicions. He knows that the late Mr. Fairfax was a member, and that he paid the ultimate price for his efforts. The League has thus supported his widow, and she is merely returning the favour.

Victor has no intention of telling her why he is here, or what he is looking for. It is for her own good to remain oblivious to it all.

For his world is dark, and it is cruel, and above all else, it is lethal.

With the heat of the water, the warmth returns to his bones, and Victor struggles to stay awake the longer he stays in the tub. With the greatest strength he pulls himself out and dries himself off with a towel, then slips into his sleeping garments and makes his way to the bed.

As a child, he had been afraid of thunderstorms, but now, as an adult, he has learnt to prefer them. He knows that the children of Nosferatu do not favour these conditions either, and that although the weather may be uncomfortable for those out there, it protects them.

With that knowledge in his heart, Victor falls asleep.

* * *

There is no sun the following day, and the sky is clouded, which is a reason for Mrs. Fairfax to lament. She has hoped for good weather, she tells Victor as he is about to leave the house, so he could see her hometown in the nicest of lights. Victor thanks her for wishing so, and assures her that sunny days will come. Not that he has planned on becoming a tourist. He has come to London for business, and that is the only thing on his mind.

He hails a carriage and gives the driver the address of the gentleman’s club he is supposed to be at in half an hour before he settles back into his seat and looks out of the window. The sky is grey, just like the rest of London apparently is. On his way to England, Victor has heard many things about the heart of the British Empire, and indeed, fellow travellers have expressed their jealousy after learning of his destination. Victor cannot find anything desirable about a city that is loud, and crowded, and that stinks with faeces and whose air is tainted with smog. And he finds that George W. M. Reynolds is right in his judgement of the place when he claimed that “the most unbounded wealth is the neighbour of the most hideous poverty”. The beggar walks alongside the nobleman on the street, both pretending to not notice the existence of the other. Victor is sure that it is only a question of time until this co-existence is no longer peaceful and eventually collapses – but when that day comes, he hopes to be out of London again, back in Russia, and with this chapter of his life closed for good. The longer he looks out at London, the more it reminds him of something he has read in an English novel some time ago: _"It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the old recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The street is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a perpetual stream of people--all the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from morn to midnight, but the streets around are mean and close; poverty and debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys; want and misfortune are pent up in the narrow prison; an air of gloom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue.“_ – and indeed, so it is.

Of course, Russia has problems of its own.

But St. Petersburg, at least, is entirely a city of the living, with death only coming to it in its purest form, and not in the shape of revenants.

If one were to credit those responsible for turning St. Petersburg into a city of light, Victor’s name would be on their list. Unlike others of his profession, however, Victor has never taken great pride in what he does, but has always viewed it as a necessity. As something that must be done, for the greater good, and for the family. He does not think much of himself in his line of work, and always focuses on the task at hand, every single one of them bringing him one step closer to the end. To the purpose to end all future purposes.

They drive across a bridge, and Victor sees the darkened water of the river Thames beneath them. He does not even want to imagine what kind of things swim in it, what horrors the water has seen and swallowed. They pulled what has brought Victor to London from these waters, what he is supposed to take a look at. He is here to share his expertise, and to see for himself if the suspicions of the League are to be confirmed.

The carriage turns, and they leave the Thames behind and face more pleasant quarters of the city. There is little to be seen of the poverty in the streets they are in now, the people dressed in fine, clean clothing, the men with their tophats and the women with their fine gloves, walking in pairs and never alone. It is in one of these streets where the carriage stops, right outside of an impressive building with high, ivory pillars, large windows and heavy doors.

Victor thanks the driver, but does not tell him to wait, for he does not know how long this will take. And besides, there are always means of transport to be found in a city like this, and he has better things to worry about.

A doorman greets him with a bow of his head before Victor steps into the building, paying little attention to the grandeur of the entrance hall as he approaches who he assumes is some sort of butler. He is a foreigner and knows little of the ways of Gentlemen’s Clubs, but he has an invitation, and is therefore as welcome as a member would be.

“Victor Nikiforov, here to see Mr. Cialdini,” he says, discretely pulling out the invitation he has received with the post some time ago and presenting it to the other man, who takes it wordlessly and studies it for a brief moment.

“Very good, Sir,” the man says with a small nod, and a servant comes to take Victor’s tophat and coat. “Please follow me.”

The butler takes Victor up the stairs to the first floor and down a long hallway, past what Victor supposes are private study rooms for those who can afford to be part of this club – and he is sure that a membership is incredibly costly. At this time of the day, there are not many people present, it seems, as Victor meets the eye of only two or three that curiously study him as the butler leads him past them, through the maze of corridors until they arrive in what Victor suspects is a tea room.

“Mr. Cialdini will be with you shortly, Sir,” the butler says and gestures at the sofas and armchairs. Victor nods and thanks the man, who has already turned around again to leave. The door shuts quietly behind him, and Victor finds himself alone.

There is a fire in the fireplace on the other side of the room, only recently made by the state of it, warming the room for those who wish to spend time in it. Victor looks around, sure that he cannot be alone in a room that seems not at all abandoned, as another man comes in through a door to his left, a newspaper under his arm as he heads straight for an armchair by the fire as he pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. Only as he is about to sit down, the man notices Victor’s presence, and looks up.

“Good morning,” he says with a polite smile and puts the newspaper down on the armchair. “Please do forgive me for not seeing you right away. I have to admit it has been a rather short night.” He approaches Victor and bows his head lightly, but keeps looking at him through his lashes. “Dr. Christophe Giacometti.”

“Victor Nikiforov,” Victor replies and inclines his head in return as he takes in the other man’s rather unusual name as well as his appearance.

“It is a pleasure,” Dr. Giacometti says, and Victor then notices the accent in his voice. Italian or German, perhaps. Judging by the French first name and Italian last name, he suspects that the man might be Swiss. “Are you new to the club, Mr. Nikiforov?”

“I am not a member, I’m afraid,” Victor explains. “I am here upon the invitation of Celestino Cialdini.”

“Ciao Ciao?” Dr. Giacometti smiles. “That’s his nickname, you must know. So if he invited you, you are surely a scholar like him? Also a historian?”

“Not quite, but almost,” Victor says, seeing no harm in talking to the other man that seems to be roughly of the same age as him, the face youthful and remarkably attractive. “You are a medical man yourself?” He asks, moving the topic of the conversation away from himself as smoothly as possible.

“Not quite, but almost,” Dr. Giacometti chuckles. “I am a psychologist. Our field is rather new, of course, but we have had the most interesting breakthroughs in the recent years. I work at the Bethlem Hospital at St. George’s Fields.”

“I have heard of that institution,” Victor says, much to his own surprise. “Was that not the place-“

“Yes,” Dr. Giacometti says with a bitter undertone. “Patient maltreatment is a dark shadow on the illustrious history of the institution. Thankfully, we have left those barbaric days behind. Our patients are no longer locked away or in chains, no. One must treat them like humans, with dignity. Would you not agree, Sir?”

“Absolutely,” Victor assures him. “You have a most interesting profession indeed, Dr. Giacometti.”

“I am sure yours is just as interesting as mine, if you work alongside Ciao Ciao,” Dr. Giacometti replies. “So are you staying in London for long? I can hear that you must be from the continent. Russia, I assume?”

As he speaks, Dr. Giacometti gestures at the armchairs by the fire, and Victor follows him there to sit down.

“Indeed,” he confirms and crosses his legs. “I do not know yet for how long my business will keep me in the city. But I expect to be here for at least three months.”

“Then you must make use of your time, Sir,” Dr. Giacometti says and pulls out a cigar case, offering one to him, but Victor thankfully declines. “There is a lot to see and do. Theatre, ballet, opera, cabaret… London has wonderful entertainment. The club also organises dinners and things like that. There is also a ball hosted by the University College in three days. A perfect opportunity to meet the most important intellectuals. Of course, it is also a great opportunity to converse with lovely ladies or dashing gentlemen.” The doctor’s eyes sparkle at that and he lights his cigar. “I have been new to this place, too, and I know how difficult it can be to gain access to these circles. If you like, you may accompany me to the ball?”

Before Victor can reply, the door opens and a tall man with tanned skin and a strong jaw walks in.

“Mr. Nikiforov,” Celestino Cialdini says and approaches them with quick steps as they rise. “I do apologise for the delay. I see you have made the acquaintance of Dr. Giacometti?”

“Mr. Cialdini,” Victor says with a small bow. “Yes, I have been in the very best hands whilst waiting for you.”

“The very best hands indeed,” Cialdini says and clasps his hands behind his back. “One of the rising stars, aren’t we, Dr. Giacometti?”

“Psychology is the rising star, not me,” Dr. Giacometti gently corrects him before turning to Victor. “I shall leave you with Ciao Ciao then. Do think about my invitation, if you like.”

“I will, thank you,” Victor says and inclines his head respectfully once more before he is being led out of the room by Cialdini, and they wordlessly make their way down the hall to what appears to be a private study.

Victor only knows the other man through correspondence, and he has to admit that the firm handwriting matches the man. Cialdini seems like the kind of man whose determination keeps him alive, who does things only for their destined purpose and does not think twice about good or evil because he knows the difference by heart. The door falls shut and they sit down at yet another fireplace, and Cialdini pours him a drink.

“I am glad you could make it, Mr. Nikiforov,” he says and hands him a glass of whiskey. A bit early in the day, Victor thinks to himself, but accepts it anyway. “I hope the journey was not too tedious.”

“I can imagine worse things than to travel first-class,” Victor replies after taking a sip. “My uncle sends his regards.”

“I hope he is well,” Cialdini says and sips his own drink. “I know he is not the youngest anymore. But I would not have written to him if the situation were not as urgent as it is.”

“Of course,” Victor says. “Your findings have caused quite a stir in the Russian League.”

Cialdini solemnly nods. “The more bodies we find, the more striking the pattern becomes,” he says. “At first, I thought of a coincidence. But how likely are coincidences in our line of work? After the third, I saw my suspicions confirmed. I am sure that it is the very same creature.”

To hear it spoken out loud sends the coldest of shivers down Victor’s spine, and he sits up straighter.

“I do not have to tell you about the incident with the League in Paris,” Cialdini says in a low voice. “I do not want this to repeat itself here in London. In the past, we have been most successful. I do not care why there is a vampire on a killing spree in this city. But we want this vampire, this issue, to be taken care of. You are our best man, Nikiforov. Can we count on you?”

Victor looks the other man in the eye. “If it is the vampire we both think it is,” he says, “then consider the issue taken care of.”

Cialdini regards him thoughtfully. “One might think that revenge makes a terrible motivator,” he says after a while, “because it blinds one’s ability to judge. But in your case, you have carried your thirst for revenge with you for so many years. How long has it been, now? Sixteen years?”

“Seventeen,” Victor corrects him quietly and takes a rather large sip from the whiskey, the alcohol burning in the back of his throat.

Cialdini hums understandingly. “I knew your parents well,” he said. “And their loss was immense for the League. And for you, of course. I am glad you had your uncle to take care of you. And to teach you of the Nosferatu.”

“I am glad, too,” Victor says, having found his voice again. He is always briefly at a loss for words whenever his parents are mentioned, especially by people who knew them. “This is what I have been waiting for, is it not. To wipe the existence of this creature off the surface of this world.”

Cialdini drinks the rest of his whiskey, putting his glass down. “As I said – revenge is a good motivator in your case. You have a sharpened gaze, thanks to it. Of course, it will not be easy to locate the target. It might walk amongst us. Speak to us, casually, like Dr. Giacometti. They know how to disguise themselves. I suggest you start investigating in the midst of the intellectual society. Gain access to their circles. That should be the best way to start. That invitation Dr. Giacometti mentioned, what was it?”

“For a ball of the University College,” Victor explains. “I should accept it, then?”

“Absolutely,” Cialdini says. “Make friends with Dr. Giacometti. His popularity will open you many doors. He has no idea of the League, of course, or about the existence of vampires. But in his social circles are members of the League. They will be of assistance, too.”

A knock on the door interrupts them, and a servant comes in. “Sir, your assistant is waiting for you.”

Cialdini sighs. “I fear we must end our conversation here, Mr. Nikiforov,” he says and they rise. “The University College has impressive archives, and if one knows where to look, one can find useful sources, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Victor says. “Thank you.”

“Make friends at the ball, and access will be granted to you. Dr. Giacometti is your key.”

And then, Cialdini offers Victor his hand to shake, unusual for people who have only just met and are not friends. But they are something else, they both know it. They are survivors in a world that is full of darkness, and they fight on the side of the light.

And so, Victor takes his hand, and shakes it.

“The best of luck to you, Mr. Nikiforov.”

As Victor finds himself walking down the hallway on his own, he feels no reassurance. The conversation went exactly the way he thought it would, but instead of feeling assured in his task, and looking forward to bringing it all to an end, he feels strangely lost.

But one step at a time, Victor reminds himself, and goes back to the tea room.

Fortunately, Dr. Giacometti is still there, looking up as he comes in.

“Does your invitation to the ball still stand, Sir?” Victor asks.

Dr. Giacometti grins.

“Call me Chris.”

* * *

There is little that could make Yuuri Katsuki lift his gaze from his notes. Not even his very lively companion, who leans far out of the carriage window at almost every turn to greet London with both his winning smile and his almost childlike excitement, is able to distract him from his reading. Not even the uneven street below the carriage that shakes them both so thoroughly is able to gain his attention, his eyes ever focused on the small writing before him. He is always quiet, always composed, always focused.

“Such a remarkable town, only to look at it!” His companion cries and falls back onto his seat, just as the carriage drives through a hole on the uneven street. The young man bounces up and down, and so does Yuuri, but he does not lift his gaze to react.

“To live in such a town, only to imagine it!” Phichit is excited, and Yuuri does understand why, understands the sentiment. “I still cannot wrap my head around it. To be part of it, actually. It’s been only three months, but I do love London so already! So many things to see and do! Opportunities others would kill for! Do you think the Londoners think the same about their city? Oh, they must be so happy to live in a place like this!”

Yuuri turns a page. “Look out at the city, truly, and you will find the place in a desolate state. This place feeds off its poor to keep the rich up on top. But regardless of wealth and status, at the end of each day, they find themselves older, and colder, than the day before. For all of them, it is a struggle and a war. But the side that wins is clear from the very beginning. You should be grateful not to be part of this battle, Phichit.”

He briefly lifts his gaze and looks his young companion in the eye before focusing on his book again, turning to the next page.

Phichit is quiet, his childlike excitement dampened by the somber words of his master.

Yuuri gently closes the book and puts it down on his lap, taking in the troubled expression of his young friend, his student, his creation. He understands how Phichit thinks and why, that partly young age is to blame, but also obliviousness to how the world is, how it always has been. Phichit may have aged, but to the world, he is just as young as the day he died. Since that day, Phichit has left both the mortality and the reality of the world behind, seeing it now through the fog that surrounds all that walk on the line between life and eternity. For him, the world is a playground, and he has unlearnt to see the struggle and the misery. It will take time, Yuuri knows, for Phichit to see clear again. Centuries, even.

“But London is, without any doubt, an interesting scene,” Yuuri remarks in attempt to lighten the mood again. “It is one of the places I have not been to before. We can learn many things from the British, I believe. And there is an interesting constellation of our kind present, too.”

“Indeed!” Phichit says, all of a sudden excited again. “I encountered a most interesting gentleman, as you know. If we want to mingle with the intellectuals of London, he is our way in. Emil has lived—”

“—among London’s intellectuals unnoticed for almost ten years, I know,” Yuuri interrupted him softly before sighing and looking out of the window. “Ah. I don’t know.”

“Why not?” Phichit asks. “It’s going to be fun! You know so many of the intellectuals already. And did you not say that getting to know them opens doors to archives?”

Phichit looks at him with the eyes of a puppy, and Yuuri knows that his young companion could not care less about his studies, but that mentioning more archives means pulling the right strings. Of course, Yuuri has his means to charm his way into libraries, but in order to get into the deepest archives, one has to be a flatterer, or at least show one’s face to the right people. And it’s not that he’s entirely unknown amongst London’s elite. A face like his, of Asian descent, belonging to a learned man is enough to raise the eyebrows of London’s high society – whose Imperialism is so deeply rooted within them that they cannot possibly imagine a person that does not belong to their superior race and class being just as learned as them. Yuuri has had his fair share of casual racism, but he is patient enough, and old enough, to hear their remarks and forget about them in the very same moment.

Phichit is not yet quite as controlled as he is.

“I did say that, yes,” Yuuri replies, and Phichit’s eyes begin to shine.

“Please, Master! Let us go out! I so long for dancing through the night! What is London good for, if not for entertainment?”

“I will think about it,” Yuuri says and picks up his book again. “But I am warning you. I will not tolerate—”

“—any mishaps, yes, I understand,” Phichit says excitedly, and he is barely able to stay on his seat. “I will not make any mistakes, Master, and I will not draw attention to us!”

“And for the love of all that is holy, stop calling me Master without end,” Yuuri sighs, and shakes his head.

“But that is what you are! You made me!”

“Do not make me regret it.”

Phichit is barely able to hold still for the rest of the way, and not just because of the way the carriage shakes. Yuuri knows what his companion is thinking of, and how excited he is to go out into London’s nightlife again – a pleasure they have had before but Yuuri has tried to keep it an exception rather than a habit. Even with his age and knowledge, it is always a certain struggle to stay hidden, especially with a young and sometimes foolish companion like Phichit at his side. But Phichit has to learn, too, and the world is his classroom, and Yuuri has to guide him through it.

Anything else would be bad parenting, one might say.

Except that Yuuri is not Phichit’s parent, but his maker, and the responsibility he has for him is of an entirely different nature. But Yuuri takes it seriously, and takes care of Phichit the best he can.

They reach their lodgings in a calm and surprisingly clean part of London, their landlord one of their own kind and therefore discreet. It is a surprisingly big apartment, too, with separate bedrooms for himself and Phichit, giving each the privacy they both need. There is also a sitting room and a kitchen, and a bathroom that Yuuri likes to use for hot baths, to think himself back in Japan, soaking in a hot spring.

It has been a long time since he has last been to Japan, but whilst he misses it to some degree, he can enjoy England, too. He is here in the search for knowledge, and Phichit, his dutiful companion and creation, has followed him without protest.

Once inside, Yuuri takes off his coat and leaves it on the chair by the door, moving to sit at his desk in the sitting room where he has left his latest reading. For some time, he can hear Phichit move around him, almost giddy as he dances from candle to candle to light them. Once he reaches the one on Yuuri’s desk, he says: “Will you inform Emil, or shall I?”

Yuuri looks up from his notes. “You may inform him, if you like. But do be discreet.”

“I will!” Phichit promises and dances out of the room to do just that, arranging their first night out in weeks.

In that regard, Yuuri has thought many times already, Phichit truly is like a child seeing the world for the very first time.

Yuuri keeps reading, for how long, he does not know, until Phichit comes back with a grin on his face and a note in his hand.

“The University College is hosting a ball in three days,” he says as he sits down beside Yuuri and shows him the note. “Emil says we can get in easily with his reputation. There should be lots of interesting people, and he said that he’s acquainted with the chairman of—”

“That’s more than what I need to know, Phichit,” Yuuri interrupts him calmly and takes the note, reading it for himself. “That sounds sensible enough. I believe it will be a good idea to mingle with the people there. I think we might know some of them already.”

Phichit nods. “We’ll be stared at again, I guess.”

“What else is to expect,” Yuuri says dryly and gives the note back to Phichit. “Don’t you want to see to what we are going to wear?”

At that, Phichit’s face lights up, and Yuuri is left in peace once more.

* * *

Christophe Giacometti is terrible company.

That much Victor knows after spending an afternoon with the man, having tea.

At the same time, it is the best company Victor has had in years. Christophe Giacometti – “Truly, call me Chris, it makes things so much easier!” – is kind, intelligent, and has a wicked sense of humour that would make old ladies blush in shame all over. Not that any of this would make Chris consider hold back on the things he says, Victor realises after they have managed to make three different couples of ladies flee the table next to theirs that afternoon.

Chris is highly entertaining, and perhaps just what Victor needed in this dire life that he leads.

Coincidentally, Chris is the key to London’s high society that Victor needs, and so he finds himself in the carriage with him on the way to the ball that the University College hosts. It is a night of splendour and grandeur, Chris has promised him, a charity ball, too, of some sort, but mostly an opportunity for the intellectuals to mingle in an appropriate setting. That ‘appropriateness’ matters the most in London’s circles is something Victor has understood quickly, and that if he wants to make progress, he has to make his way into these circles – in an appropriate way.

It is quite ironic, he thinks to himself, that the _absolutely_ inappropriate Christophe Giacometti is his appropriate key to London’s high society.

“Did you often go to balls or banquets in Russia, my friend?” Chris asks as they reach the representative building of the University College. “Or is this entirely new terrain for you?”

“I’ve been to a few,” Victor says as he gets out of the carriage after his new friend and readjusts his clothing. “And I do know how to behave, if this is what you are worried about the most.”

Chris chuckles and checks his pocket watch. “Not at all, my friend, but one never knows. Ah, I see we are just in time to be fashionably late!”

Whatever that means Victor does not know, but he trusts Chris’ knowledge of London etiquette – he has no other choice, really. No one bats an eye as they enter the building and are promptly greeted by servants, in Chris’ case by name, even. Chris winks at Victor and leads him towards the people and the music, and into what must be the most magnificent ballroom of London that is not part of a royal palace.

Of course, there is a difference between English and Russian understandings of grandeur and luxury, and whilst there is far less gold than Victor has thought, it is a magnificent place. High windows and even higher ceilings cause the ballroom to appear almost endless, the chandeliers bathing the room into warm light, as if the night outside did not even exist. Men in bespoke attire and women in magnificent gowns inhabit the place, dancing to the music that the orchestra plays. They all bask in the splendour of the life they have gained upon being born into a fortunate class, oblivious to the darkness that awaits the rest of people, beyond the light of the candles.

But Victor cannot blame them for not seeing what he sees, for averting their eyes in shame before the horror that inhabits the other side of London.

Ignorance is merely another means of survival.

“Ah, wonderful,” Chris sighs and takes two glasses of champagne from a passing servant. “There are so many people that you must meet, my dear Victor, but I like to watch first, you know? London’s society is awfully complex and one always has to test the waters before diving in. You never know who might be watching, and it matters a lot to whom you speak first, and in what setting. Ah, see, over there.” Chris takes a sip from his champagne and nods at a couple that stands by the windows, talking animatedly with an elderly gentleman. “Lord and Lady Carmichael, quite the scandalous couple, I can tell you. He is in his fifties and she is barely twenty. A love marriage, they say, but you know, money makes things a lot easier. The man they are speaking to is Professor Augustus Talbot, quite the madman, I’ve been told. And over there we have Mrs Daphne Noakes, I am sure you have heard of her. A woman scientist, quite smart. Ah, and there we have Emil Nekola, a lovely Czech gentleman that you definitely have to meet. And there we—”

They are interrupted by a hand on Chris’ shoulder, and a voice that declares: “And here we have the man of the hour, gentlemen! Dr. Giacometti, how glad I am that you could join us!”

They find themselves surrounded by a group of elderly gentlemen with their wives that all look far too pleased with themselves, all of them carrying the aura of those that feel quite secure about who they are in life. Victor has always stayed away of people of that kind, but in the line of his business, one has to mingle with all sorts of people. Above all, it is Chris who is in the centre of their attention, and Victor is merely a bystander.

“Dr Hyslop,” Chris says with a smile and bows to the older gentleman. “What a surprise.”

“Indeed,” the man called Hyslop says. “We were just speaking about you. Well, about your latest work. I was telling our colleagues how very interesting it is.”

“I must admire your work ethics, Dr Giacometti,” another man says with a small nod. “The work with insane patients is incredibly challenging. I hear that you give every single one of them individual sessions?”

“That is correct,” Chris confirms.

“But how rude of us,” Hyslop says, now looking at Victor. “We must not bore your friend with work discussions, right, Giacometti?”

“Oh, I am sure he does not mind,” Chris says and clears his throat. “May I introduce Victor Nikiforov? He has joined us tonight from St. Petersburg.”

“Oho!” A man to their left says, just as Victor bows in general greeting. “Of _the_ Nikiforov family?”

There is only one Nikiforov family like his own, Victor knows this, and so he nods. “I’m afraid so.”

The fact alone that the man knows of the weight of his name is enough to tell Victor that the man must be a member of the League, whoever he may be. More and more members of the group nod in understanding, and Victor comes to the conclusion that the League is not as small in London as he has thought.

Only Dr Hyslop seems oblivious to what it means to be a Nikiforov, for he immediately believes what Chris tells him: “My dear friend here is a historian in a sense, very much like old Ciao Ciao.”

“I see,” Hyslop says with a small smile and clasps his hands behind his back. “Well, historians do have one of the most noble branches of the scholarly world, that I have to admit. It is far less strenuous to the soul to read books instead of minds. I am somewhat of a historian myself. Say, you must be very interested in our archives, then.”

“Indeed, I am,” Victor replies politely. “But I have not yet found out where to begin with my research.”

“Then I am your man,” one of the other gentlemen says and steps forward. “Robert Olding, Professor of Ancient History.”

“How do you do,” Victor says and bows his head in greeting.

“Indeed, Olding is your man, there,” Hyslop says.

“Are you very interested in history, Mr Nikiforov?” One of the ladies asks. “What part of history?”

“I do not have a special field, Madame,” Victor answers politely, not sure if that is even the right way to address a woman he does not even know, but she takes no offense. “But I would like to do research on the last hundred years.”

“I shall direct you to the right people, then, Mr Nikiforov,” Olding assures him and hiccups a little as he takes another sip from his drink. “Our archives are the best, obviously, so it was a very wise choice to come to us. We have the most sought-after manuscripts! Even our Japanese friend Dr Katsuki is very active in our archives and libraries!” Olding chuckles and turns to the right, just as two young men are about to walk past their group.

Victor turns his head, and looks into a pair of intelligent brown eyes that belong to the most beautiful man he has ever seen. Dark-haired and paler than he would have imagined a Japanese person would be, impeccably dressed, with an aura of calmness surrounding him of which Victor is sure that he is not imagining it.

“You are quite the scholar, aren’t you, Dr Katsuki?” Olding asks paternally. “Browsing our libraries and archives day and night?”

The young man, Dr Katsuki, bows his head in both greeting and confirmation as he stops by their group. “Good evening, Professor Olding,” he says, his English slightly accentuated but otherwise absolutely flawless. “And yes, I do like to read, Sir.”

“Indeed, that you do,” Olding laughs and turns to Victor. “You see, Dr Katsuki here came to us all the way from Japan. And his companion—where is he from again?”

“From Siam, Sir,” Dr Katsuki replies patiently, briefly glancing at his companion, whose eyes are fixed on Chris in utter fascination.

“From Japan and Siam, all the way right into London’s intellectual circles!” Olding exclaims. “And so well adjusted already, it is quite the miracle. But then again, the Japanese are a studious people, are they not, Dr Katsuki?”

Victor is sure that he is not the only one that is appalled by the way Olding speaks to the Japanese man, as if he were not quite right in the head and supposed to be grateful to be taken by the hand of the British and learn some culture. He is sure that Dr Katsuki is only playing nice in order to not cause a scene.

Victor cannot blame him.

He would have done the same.

“One might say so,” Dr Katsuki says, and Victor almost misses the subtle movement of the man’s arm, his hand briefly touching the one of his companion. “Forgive me, gentlemen, I have spotted an old acquaintance that I must not miss.” He bows his head once more and then walks off, no, he almost floats as he walks, his Siamese companion close behind him.

“Quite the interesting person, this Dr Katsuki,” Olding says with a small sigh. “An incredibly smart one, too. I’ve had the displeasure to work with Chinese scholars in the past, and after that, I said to myself: no, never again! But I must say that Dr Katsuki is pleasant company and indeed knows a lot.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do with such a person!” One of the ladies admits. “The eyes alone! Can they even see properly? Studying must be so tedious for him.”

“Poor fellow!” Her friend agrees.

That there is absolutely no old acquaintance to which Dr Katsuki has fled to none of them notices. Only Victor watches the Japanese man go, and now sees him stand by the window with his Siamese companion, both of them nursing a glass of wine whilst Dr Katsuki speaks to his friend, who gives a few nods and even a few pouts. Then, Dr Katsuki puts down his glass and walks away, heading into the opposite direction. The crowd even somewhat parts for him, as if startled by the presence of an Asian foreigner.

“I think I might have a new friend to make over there,” Chris says to Victor, and only then does he notice that the rest of the group has begun to talk about something else again, and that the attention is no longer on them.

“The companion of Dr Katsuki is quite dashing, don’t you think?” Chris says as he takes Victor by the arm and moves him away from the group of scholars and their ladies. “Have you ever met someone from Siam before?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Victor admits, glad to be away from the group again. He has never been one of those that like to mingle with the elite for longer than necessary. And now that he has the right name, the right contact in Robert Olding, he can move on.

One step at a time.

Chris straights his shoulders. “Watch and learn, my friend,” he says.

Before Victor knows what is happening, Chris is approaching the Siamese man with bouncy steps and a winning smile on his face.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice like velvet on purpose, and the Siamese man turns around. His dark eyes begin to shine, very much in the same way just moments ago, and Victor immediately knows that there is a pair that has found each other. “Please do forgive me for interrupting your solitude, but I could not possibly let this evening end without apologising for the terrible rudeness of the gentlemen. I am terribly sorry for their behaviour.”

Chris could have as well given the young man directions to his bedchamber, it would sound just as lewd and scandalous. Victor almost feels ashamed of standing at his side.

The Siamese man smiles, and it is the smile of clear attraction. “Oh, there is no need to apologise, Sir,” he says, and although is accent is heavier than the one of Dr Katsuki, his speech is clear and actually quite charming. “I don’t think I caught your name earlier.”

Chris smiles and takes the hand that the other man is now offering him. “Dr Christophe Giacometti,” he purrs and presses a small kiss to the other man’s knuckles. “And with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking…?”

“Phichit Chulanont is my name,” the Siamese says in a voice that equally speaks of attraction, and Victor knows that he is definitely the third wheel in this conversation.

“What a beautiful name,” Chris says, and his smile grows wider, and he is still holding his hand. “Would you like to have a drink with me, Mr Chulanont? I would be very interested in hearing what you think of the English devils.”

The man called Phichit Chulanont licks his lips. “I’d be delighted, Sir.”

Victor’s headache decides to make a surprise appearance just in that moment. He frowns, touching his temple and rubbing it in small circles. There is a reason he hardly ever drinks alcohol, especially not champagne. It never goes well.

Fortunately, Chris is not too far gone yet, and notices that something is wrong.

“Are you well, my dear friend?” He asks.

“Just a headache,” Victor assures him. “I just need some water and a place with less noise...”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Phichit Chulanont says, and he does indeed sound genuine. “There is a library, just through the door over there. Maybe it is a little less crowded there?”

Victor follows the man’s gestures to a door on the other side of the ballroom, leading to what he suspects is said library. The headache keeps pounding against the inside of his head, reminding him that the alcohol was a terrible, terrible idea.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Chris asks, and Victor knows that the Swiss would hate nothing more than having to leave his new friend already for a Russian with a headache.

“I’ll be fine,” Victor assures him and grabs a glass of water from a passing waiter. “I just need a moment.” He nods at Chris and also at Chulanont, who already only has eyes for the young doctor, before he makes his way through the ballroom to the library.

The moment Victor steps into the other room, he feels the ringing in his ears lessen and the pounding headache become less prominent, even if it does not leave him entirely. He is used to it, knows that it takes time, and a lot of patience from his side, besides a darkened room, and relatively quiet surroundings.

Victor exhales deeply and takes another sip from the water, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light in the library, whose soothing atmosphere creeps right into his bones.

Only then, he realises that he is not alone.

Dr Katsuki stands by the window on the other side of the room, a glass of wine in his hand as he looks out into the night. The light of the flames in the fireplace to their left caress his delicate features, just for a moment, before the other man turns around to face Victor.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says before he knows what he is doing. “I did not know that this room was already occupied. I did not mean to intrude.”

“Oh, you are not,” Dr Katsuki says, and once again his voice is just as calm and soothing as the aura that surrounds him. Just like before, Victor is sure that it is not just an illusion. “Are you looking for something? Or someone?”

Victor shakes his head. “Only for a not so crowded place in order to clear my head,” he says, feeling that he does not have to hide tiredness and pain from that man.

Dr Katsuki smiles understandingly. “So am I.”

He turns fully around, and Victor sees that in his other hand he is holding a book.

“Libraries are good places for clearing one’s head for a while, aren’t they,” Dr Katsuki says as he approaches the shelves to put the book back. “The collection in here is rather heavy on geology, I’m afraid. Unless you are interested in it, that is. But I am afraid there is not a single word to be found about Miss Mary Anning.”

“Who is Mary Anning?” Victor asks with a small frown.

Dr Katsuki smiles sympathetically. “Precisely.”

The book slides back into its place, and Dr Katsuki puts down his glass of wine on a small table.

“I believe to have overheard that you are a historian, Mr…?”

“Nikiforov,” Victor says and steps forward into the light, bowing lightly to the other man. “Victor Nikiforov.”

Dr Katsuki regards him thoughtfully.

“I am somewhat of a historian myself,” he says eventually, as if the few seconds of silence have never happened. “But I would not call myself an expert.”

“You frequent the archives and libraries, too, is that correct?” Victor asks.

Dr Katsuki nods. “Here and there. A… personal pleasure of mine, so to speak.” His voice is calm, composed, just like the rest of him, as if absolutely nothing could ever unsettle him. It is a quality that not a lot of people possess, and Victor would certainly not count himself amongst those. But he has always admired people like Dr Katsuki.

Those in full control of themselves.

“What are you interested in, Mr Nikiforov?” Dr Katsuki asks, clasping his hands behind his back. “In regard to history.”

Victor realises he cannot even remember what kind of answer he has planned to give in such a situation. “Ah, here and there, too,” he says with a small smile, picking up what Dr Katsuki has said himself. “Contemporary history is currently my field.”

“How very unusual,” Dr Katsuki says. “I prefer to dig around in the past.”

Victor wants to ask what part, just to keep Dr Katsuki talking, to hear more of this beautiful voice. But Dr Katsuki’s gaze has moved from Victor to the door that he has left ajar, and Victor sees that he is watching his companion, Chulanont, and Chris. Standing close together, and Chulanont whispering into the other man’s ear.

“Now look at the time,” Dr Katsuki says and briefly pulls out a pocket watch. “I’m afraid my companion and I must take our leave. Our work never sleeps, you see.” Dr Katsuki puts the pocket watch back and gives Victor a small bow. “It was a pleasure, Mr Nikiforov. I hope we shall meet again.”

Victor bows in return. “So do I,” he says, watching as the Japanese approaches the door.

“Oh, and in regard to Mary Anning,” Dr Katsuki says suddenly and stops in his tracks, his hand already on the frame. “ _She sells sea shells at the sea shore_.”

And with that, the man leaves him, and Victor watches as the Japanese snaps his fingers at Chulanont in passing, who immediately jumps back from his conversation with Chris. A small bow is the only small goodbye his poor friend gets from the Siamese man, and by the time Victor has stepped out into the ballroom and moved to the side of the absolutely besotted Chris, Dr Katsuki and his companion have disappeared.

* * *

“But Yuuri—”

“I told you to behave yourself, Phichit,” Yuuri says firmly. “And what do you do when I turn my back to you?”

“I wasn’t going to do anything!” Phichit whines. “But he smelled so good!”

“Just because someone smells good it does not mean you have to target them,” Yuuri says and hails a carriage once they have reached the street. “You have fed yesterday.”

Phichit almost throws himself into the carriage and onto the seat, very much like a woman onto her fainting couch, and buries his face between his arms. Yuuri ignores his antics and takes a seat, looking out of the window.

Victor Nikiforov has come to London.

It has been some time since he last heard the name of that family, but his arrival means that things have not gone unnoticed. Yuuri cannot help but think of the way the man has looked at him, a certain forlornness in his eyes that one usually only ever sees amongst his own kind. It is what eternity and immortality do to you, inevitably.

It is useless to debate it with Phichit, for his companion is young, and childish, and not making actual sense of the world yet.

Phichit sits up after a while and still pouts, but he won’t complain, because he does not dare to speak up against his master.

“Who was the man you were talking to?” He asks.

“Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri replies.

Phichit frowns. “That…”

“I know.” Yuuri meets his gaze for a moment. “It is no longer just a game.”

Phichit, of course, does not understand.

He only watches his master, who is always an enigma, and ignores the burning in his throat.


	3. Das Lied vom Meister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor settles into London life.  
> Yuuri makes a bloody discovery in Phichit's bedroom.  
> A meeting in an archive turns into a meet-cute.  
> And there's an interrogation...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to chapter 3!  
> This time, we'll dive deeper into London's underworld.  
> There is thirst, and there is crime. And in the midst, Yuuri and Victor.
> 
> The song for this chapter is called "Das Lied vom Meister" of the musical "Dracula". Translated, it means "The Song of the Master". Listen to it to get a feeling for this chapter. You do not need to understand anything - the lyrics have been incorporated into the interrogation part of the chapter.

**[>>Das Lied vom Meister<<](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EOtOA3x8MZo) **

* * *

The first call for help comes much sooner than Victor has expected.

He has had barely time to settle in – he has not even given Mrs. Fairfax the first payment for rent as someone knocks on his door. Victor is in a dressing gown, his hair unkempt and sleep in his eyes as he goes to answer. Outside the door stands Celestino Cialdini’s assistant, and that means that duty calls. Victor dresses and follows the man to the carriage, neither of them speaking a word as he is taken to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. The entrance to the morgue is guarded by the police, and Victor doubts that these good servants of the state know who he is. It is surely only thanks to the presence of Cialdini’s assistant that he is let through without protest and finds himself in the cool basement of St. Bartholomew’s, where the air is clammy and reeks of death. To those not used it, it is surely a disturbing place.

Neither Victor nor Cialdini’s assistant bat an eye.

At the end of a long corridor stands a man dressed in a coat and hat. He is young, Victor notices, barely older than himself, most likely. The lines around his mouth tell of a usually good-humoured nature, of which there is little to see in this moment. One would not jest and smile in a morgue, of course.

“Victor Nikiforov?” The man asks as they come to stand before him and offers him a brief, firm handshake. “My name is Detective Inspector Leroy.”

Victor dislikes the man instantly.

“How do you do,” Victor says and shakes the man’s hand.

Cialdini’s assistant leaves without another word.

Detective Inspector Leroy grimaces. “If he were any more lifeless, he would be a resident of this place, I dare to say,” he mutters as he lets go of Victor’s hand. Then, he studies Victor for a few good moments, as if to compare what he is seeing with a mental image. “You must forgive me,” he says then. “When Cialdini said you were in town, I could not help but wonder what you might look like.”

“I do not think that Cialdini or anyone else has ever mentioned you to me,” Victor replies. “So I do not quite know why I am here. There is a body to be looked at, I presume.”

Leroy chuckles. “You Russians are cold, inside and out, aren’t you,” he says and lightly shakes his head. “But yes. There is a body to which I would like to hear your opinion. From one member of the League to another.”

That explains a lot.

The name Leroy does not ring a bell, but Cialdini’s assistant would not have left him with this man if he were not a member of the League, or at least a confidant.

“I hope I can be of assistance, then,” Victor says and follows Leroy through the door into an even longer hallway. To their left are several doors, all of them leading to examination rooms, Victor assumes. All of them are closed.

“When did you arrive in London, Mr Nikiforov?” Leroy asks and looks at him over his shoulder. Victor notices how his coat is slightly too big, sliding back and forth on his shoulders. “Found good lodgings?”

“Five days ago,” Victor replies. “The widow of a former League member has rented a few rooms to me.”

“T’is not a nice season for a visit to dear old London,” Leroy remarks. “Too much rain at this time of the year. Not like in Toronto. I’m glad I left my wife there. She would not be able to bear this godforsaken place. Let alone the weather.”

Leroy is one of those people that like to make smalltalk, even in a place like this, and never has Victor found such talk more unsuitable. There is still some respect to be paid to the dead in his opinion, that is how he has been raised. He has seen far too many bodies in his life, and never, not even once, has he tainted the atmosphere of respect with mindless chatter.

They stop before one of the doors and Leroy pulls it open. “After you.”

The examination room is small, illuminated by gas lamps. The writing desk by the examination table seems as if it had been just recently abandoned, as if the person working here had vacated the space in order to let them work in peace. On the examination table lies a body, covered by a simple, white sheet.

“A body has been pulled from the Thames in the early morning hours,” Leroy says and approaches the table far too casually for Victor’s taste, as if approaching a meal. “Don’t worry. It is not a water corpse. No need to suppress the contents of your stomach.” He takes the sheet and pulls it back, revealing the white, lifeless body of a woman in the early thirties. She is thin and gaunt, her collarbones showing, telling of the hunger she must have felt. But she is pale, too pale, even for a corpse.

Victor steps closer and takes the sheet, covering the woman’s chest again.

Leroy chuckles.

Victor ignores him.

 _Let the dead have their dignity_ , Yakov has taught him.

“Look at the bite marks there,” Leroy says, nodding at the woman’s neck. It is not necessary to tell Victor to have a look at them, for the woman’s neck is a gruesome sight. Her throat has almost been ripped out completely, he notes, only fine threads of muscle and tissue and bone keeping the woman’s head where it belongs.

“At first I thought it was some wild animal, a dog, perhaps,” Leroy says as Victor grabs a stool and sits down by the woman’s head to have a closer look. “Are those glasses?”

Victor pauses in his movements, his glasses in his hands. “Is there a problem?”

Leroy snickers. “It’s just that they’ve told me the most fantastic stories about you, Mr Nikiforov. Wouldn’t have thought you were relying on glasses.”

Victor looks him dead in the eye. “They help me to do my work to the standard that the League requires of me,” he replies and puts the glasses on his nose. “If you see any issue with them, or with me, take it to Cialdini.”

“I’m not having any issues with them,” Leroy protests, but Victor has already turned his head and begun to study the woman’s neck.

He had seen his first corpse at the tender age of five. At a farm, just outside of St. Petersburg, by the road. An old man, struck dead by lightning. His father had jumped off the carriage to see if he could help, whilst his mother had pulled him onto his lap and hidden his face in her bosom. But Victor had watched, had seen how professional his father had gone about his task.

“At least, it was nature that took his life,” his father had remarked after loading the body onto the baggage rack on the backside of the carriage, and his mother had nodded in sympathy.

There were three ways to die, Victor has learnt a long time ago. By nature, by force, and by evil. A death by force always involves the doing of another human being, accidental or planned, manslaughter or murder. A death by nature is pure, by illness, or old age, or by the simple fact that sometimes, humankind must submit to what is greater than them.

The woman before him has been killed by evil.

“You have seen this before?” Leroy asks after a while, leaning forward a little too much for Victor’s taste.

“It was a vampire,” Victor murmurs and moves back on the stool, meeting the Detective Inspector’s gaze. “The bite marks are rather peculiar.”

“It’s been a rather brutal attack, I guess?” Leroy inquires. “With the throat almost ripped out, I mean—”

“Not necessarily, no,” Victor interrupts him calmly and takes off his glasses to put them away again. “I have seen worse. This is a rather common type of attack. However, the angle of the bite stands out. Here.” He brushes the woman’s hair aside to show what he means. “Carefully placed teeth. The woman’s head has been grabbed, the neck exposed, and been bitten precisely there. Out of sheer habit, always the same spot. Only then it became messy.”

“Because the woman started fighting back?”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “She is but skin and bone. Only the strongest, healthiest humans are able to even attempt a fight with a vampire. I think the vampire who attacked her made this look like the doing of someone who is blinded by thirst on purpose.”

“It is not?” Leroy seems taken aback, and Victor resists the urge to roll his eyes at the man.

“A young, newborn vampire, or a vampire overwhelmed by thirst, would not have any self-control. The woman’s entire body would be battered and broken if she had been attacked by one of those. They would not have focused on her neck. And she would not have been thrown into the Thames but would have been left on the street.”

Leroy opens his mouth to reply but Victor does not let him.

“See here,” he says and steps back, his fingertips hovering at the spot where the vampire’s teeth have broken through the woman’s flesh. “The woman was grabbed, her neck exposed. The teeth entered here. Then, with considerable force, the vampire dragged his teeth through her flesh down to here, ripping her throat open.” He glances at Leroy, who suddenly appears a little green, as if all the talk of blood and murder and evil has begun to affect his stomach. “Why begin up here, and end it down there, Mr Leroy. We know that the most civilised vampires can drink and kill without spilling a single drop. That is what the attacker of this woman usually does. But then he breaks his routine and almost rips off her head, making a mess. And then, he tosses her body into the river. This is a performance, Detective Inspector. Not an accident, or the doing of a young or insane vampire.”

Detective Inspector Leroy looks as if he does not dare to take a breath that is too deep.

“So the vampire in question is doing this on purpose,” he concludes.

“Precisely,” Victor says. “And the bite marks are telling enough, even without the destruction that followed.”

“You mean,” Leroy begins, glancing at the body for another second. “You have an idea about the vampire’s identity?”

“I believe that this vampire has killed in St. Petersburg before,” Victor replies and covers the woman’s face.

May she rest in peace.

Leroy appears as if he is ready to throw something.

“So this is why Cialdini wanted you to take a look at this,” he says, and it is clear that he is not pleased at all. “And who is this vampire, then? If you’re here, that means that you were not able to catch the vampire at home. Why come here, then, and not leave it to our branch of the League?” Leroy pauses and he looks at Victor with wide eyes. “It’s personal. Isn’t it.”

“I will inform Cialdini about the results,” Victor says and smooths out his coat. The sooner he gets out of the cold morgue, the better. “You should see to it that her body is kept here for as long as it might be needed. For reference.”

Leroy raises an eyebrow. “She is not the first to look like this, Mr Nikiforov.”

Victor frowns.

“In every single room that we have walked past in this corridor rests a body with the very same injuries,” Leroy says and looks smug about it, as if it is giving him extreme pleasure that he has withheld this information from Victor until now.

“I was told that there were only three so far,” Victor says.

“Well, we have more now,” Leroy says, as if this were a competition of some sort. The way he says it reminds Victor of an insolent child that likes to brag. “We also have some that have been… ripped apart. In another morgue. This one here is full.”

Leroy must have been fun at school.

“Then I hope you have had mass read for every single one of them,” Victor replies and pulls out his pocket watch. It is almost eleven in the morning. “Show me the others.”

Leroy grits his teeth, but Victor is out of the door before he can be stopped and approaches the next examination room. The body in there shows the same injuries as the woman he has first examined, and so do the bodies of the men and women in the other rooms.

“Those that have been ‘ripped apart’, as you said, are in another morgue. Correct?” Victor asks after looking at the last body, the corpse of a young man with red hair and freckles. In life, he has surely been beautiful.

“What’s left of them, yes,” Leroy replies, his arms crossed before his chest. “We gathered the other ones here because we thought we might sense a pattern.”

“You were right to do so,” Victor says. “At this point, this is all I can do for you now. I will inform Cialdini about my findings. Have a good day, Detective Inspector.”

With that, he turns around and walks out of the door, down the hallway and past the many rooms and their silent residents. Leroy calls something after him, but Victor is elsewhere with his thoughts the moment he steps out into the bleak London day.

He has seen too many bodies to miss a pattern. He knows that most vampires have habits, especially older ones, and he has seen bites like the ones on the bodies in the morgue before. A very long time ago, in St. Petersburg.

They have been the first bite marks of a vampire he ever saw, and they have brought him to the point where he is now.

He hails a carriage at the corner of the street and gives the driver the address of the gentlemen’s club where he first met Celestino Cialdini. Chris has invited him for lunch, and the club is private enough to allow conversations without sudden disturbances. He has not seen Chris since the ball of the University College, but they have been in touch ever since. He is good company, and entertaining, and perhaps more than just a means to an end. It is never wrong to make friends, not even in the line of duty. Yakov has always encouraged him to find friends for himself, friends that are not part of the League.

But Victor has always struggled with finding friends, or simply people he can trust.

The club is not crowded at this time of the day, most of its members still at work. But Chris is already there, impeccably dressed, talking animatedly to a servant. At Victor’s sight, he waves his hand. “My dear friend,” he says and comes to greet him with a firm handshake. “I thought I had lost you in this terribly busy city. Goodness, your hands are cold, even through gloves.”

“It is a cold day,” Victor says and takes off his coat and gloves, leaving them with a servant. “I hope you have been well.”

“Oh, very much so,” Chris says as they make their way to the dining hall together where a table has been reserved for them. “My landlord’s son came home for a visit and I was invited for tea. A fine young gentleman, studying medicine in Cambridge. He might do his practical studies at my hospital.”

“So he is interested in helping the mentally ill?”

“Ah, I’m afraid he sees patients more as objects, and less as people,” Chris says as he takes a seat at a table by the window. “I have ordered the duck for both of us. I hope that was alright?” He asks Victor.

“Of course,” Victor says and takes a seat as well as a servant comes to pour them each a glass of water and some wine.

“So how was your morning?” Chris asks, coming straight to the point. “You do seem a little stressed, my friend.”

“Do I?” Victor asks and takes a sip from the water. “I had some business to take care of this morning already.”

“Unpleasant business?” Chris inquires.

Victor sets down his glass. “Not the most pleasant of businesses, yes. I did not even have time for breakfast.”

“Then we must see to it that you get some food into that stomach of yours,” Chris decides. “So, what got you out of your bed so early in the morning?”

When it comes to hiding one’s true profession, it is best to stay as close to the truth as possible in order to forge a good lie. Of course, Victor would not tell Chris about the League, or about his occupation, but the man knows Cialdini, and would easily enough put two and two together.

“I am helping the police with a case,” he explains calmly. “In my function as a historian.”

Chris appears impressed. “How interesting. How could a historian possibly help the police?”

“By being a specialist in a certain part of history,” Victor explains with a small smile. “Criminal history, that is.”

The food is being served, which gives Chris time to think about what Victor has said, and Victor the opportunity to review if his explanation would be satisfactory enough for someone as sharp-witted as Chris.

Apparently, it is.

“So that is your definition of contemporary history,” Chris chuckles, referring back to what Victor has said about his research interests at the ball. “How very interesting. To be honest, I had already suspected something of the sort. After all, one that is acquainted with Ciao Ciao would not be an ordinary man. Everyone knows that he works with the police. I cannot understand why. I find Scotland Yard to be a bunch of obnoxious idiots. But then again, they are English.”

He concludes his little speech with a sigh and they begin to eat. In the silence of their meal, Victor cannot help but think back to what he has seen this morning, about the bodies on the examination tables, about the bite marks on their necks. And then, there is Leroy’s remark, of course, that there are even more bodies, destroyed beyond all recognition. To Victor, it is clear that there are either two vampires terrorising London, or only one is trying to make it appear so.

“Victor?”

Chris’ voice pulls him back to reality, and Victor realises that his friend has been trying to get his attention.

“I’m sorry,” Victor says immediately. “I was lost in thought.”

Chris appears to be most understanding. “Would you like to join me at the hospital later?” He asks. “To take your mind off things. Since you said you were interested in the field of psychology.”

Victor smiles. “That is a very kind offer, Chris, but I fear that I have work to do. I will gladly come another time.”

“Of course,” Chris says, and he does not seem the least disappointed. “Just let me know. And try not to waste too much thought on complicated things. The mind influences the body. The beauty of the thought – have you ever heard of this concept?”

Victor has not, and so they spend the rest of their lunch discussing said concept amongst other things. Chris, Victor realises, has a broad knowledge of many things besides psychology and medicine, and empathy that many people in the League tragically lack. Victor would count himself amongst them.

“Try to enjoy London, too, and do not only work,” Chris advises him as they are about to part, both of them standing in front of their respective carriages outside the club after lunch. “Have you been to the galleries yet?”

“Not yet,” Victor replies. “But I have heard that one must not miss them.”

“Indeed,” Chris agrees. “Let us go to the National Portrait Gallery, then. How about Saturday in a week?”

Victor nods. “Of course. I would love to.”

“I will pick you up then,” Chris says and pats his upper arms before he climbs into the carriage. “Do not work too hard, Victor. I would hate to see bags under your eyes and frowns on your beautiful face.”

At that, Victor cannot help but laugh, and he waves after the carriage before getting into his own.

“Where to, Sir?” the driver asks.

Victor hesitates. “To a Russian-orthodox church, please.”

* * *

The newspaper is wet in Yuuri’s hands as he folds it over and tucks it away under his arm, making his way down the narrow alley that is a short-cut he has only recently discovered. The paperboy has practically tossed the newspaper into his hands after Yuuri has given him the money, only to continue to shout out the headlines of the day: “Another body in the Thames! Scotland Yard is at a loss! Another body in the Thames! Get the story ‘ere!”

The article itself has been short and concise, not giving away much information about what was truly going on. Only those that follow the news with a particular focus on recent crime developments would have noticed the pattern that became more and more striking.

Yuuri has noticed it, of course.

A vampire always notices the misbehaviour of another vampire.

To throw a body into the Thames, however, is risky, headless behaviour that neither sounds like a young vampire nor like an old one. A young vampire would not even think of trying to hide a body, whereas an old one would be wise enough to toss the body not into a river that runs through a large city.

It is all most mysterious indeed.

Night has fallen over London now, but that does not mean that the city is going to sleep. Only the people on the streets change – from those on and about for their daily work to those who seek entertainment and distraction. Illuminated theatres, opera houses, and other establishments of the sort invite people in, ready to make the night another day.

It seems that there are always people who do not wish to use the night for rest.

For Yuuri, the night is only a continuation of the day, without sunlight.

As soon as the sun disappears and the moon comes out, a vampire begins to feel almost alive again.

A bunch of homeless children has gathered in front of the door that leads up to their apartment, and Yuuri tosses a few coins at them out of sheer habit. This is why they come, for they know that the strange, foreign man always has some money for them. They cheer and call their thank-yous before they run off again and Yuuri can step inside. The hallway is illuminated by candles, the sound of a violin coming from the apartment on the ground floor. Another vampire lives there, another friend of Emil, and one of the kind that prefers not to mingle. Yuuri has never seen their faces, and he prefers to keep it that way. The violin is enough.

On the upper floor is the apartment they have rented, and once Yuuri has stepped inside, he feels the tension fall from his shoulders. It feels good to be back at the place where he does not have to hide who he is.

“I’m back,” he calls out for Phichit as he takes off his coat and gloves and puts them on the hook by the door. There is no reply, so Yuuri can only assume that his friend must be asleep or otherwise occupied. The newspaper in hand, Yuuri makes his way through the sitting room towards his study, his thoughts already on the case again as Phichit comes out of his room, wearing nothing but a long shirt and a grin on his face.

“You’re back!” He chirps. “Anything interesting?” He nods at the newspaper in Yuuri’s hand. “Did they come to any conclusions yet?”

“Not yet,” Yuuri said, looking up at him. “They have their suspicions, I assume, but they would be fools to put them in an evening paper.” He pauses, frowning as he spots the traces of blood on Phichit’s otherwise pristine shirt, and his eyes wander to his friend’s lips that, barely noticeably, have been tainted with red.

He walks past Phichit and pushes the door to his bedroom open, internally groaning at the sight presented to him. The man in Phichit’s bed is half naked and smeared with blood, barely breathing, and beyond the point of consciousness.

He turns his head, giving Phichit a long, annoyed look. “Is that what you understand by hunting discretely? I told you not to be unnecessarily cruel.”

Phichit whines, very much like an insolent child. “But he was so sweet, Master!” He whines. “After we had sex I just couldn’t resist having him all for myself a little longer! Just as a snack!”

“I have told you time and again that we do not play with our food like young kittens!” Yuuri says. “You either take a little and wipe their memory before leaving them somewhere or you take all, and make it quick and merciful.”

“But I was going to do that!” Phichit cries, stomping his foot. “I was going to wipe his memory and bring him back to—”

“Phichit, he is barely breathing,” Yuuri interrupts him in annoyance.

Phichit glances at the man in his bed, as if seeing what he has done for the very first time.

“Oh.”

“We do not toy around with life, Phichit,” Yuuri tells him firmly. “It is despicable. Now do as I say!”

Phichit begins to whine even more, for he does not understand his master’s way of thinking, but has no other choice than to obey. Yuuri gives him another warning look, and Phichit falls silent. “Take care of this and then get rid of the body. But do not be as stupid as to throw him into the Thames.”

With a final, warning glance, Yuuri retreats to the sitting area in the living room, opening the newspaper again. As he glances over it, he watches Phichit return to his bedchamber, and he knows that the thirst will do its part in ending the man’s suffering. But Phichit is young, very much like a child, and understands little of suffering at all. The moment Phichit reaches the bed and climbs over his victim, Yuuri knows that he has forgotten the scolding already. Not a sound comes over the man’s lips as Phichit sinks his teeth into him and takes his life, calm and in silence, the very least that he can do.

Yuuri’s eyes return to the newspaper.

He does not know for how long Phichit is gone, as he does not see for the time. When his friend returns, he is still in the long, white shirt, now smeared with even more blood. But Phichit knows how to hide himself, and how to dispose of a body, and Yuuri does not have to worry that someone might have seen him.

“That body was really thrown into the Thames?” He asks as he flops down on the sofa beside Yuuri and tries to read the headline.

“Yes,” Yuuri replies and holds up the paper so he can read it for himself. “Like a few others before.”

“But who would be that stupid,” Phichit says and pulls up his legs to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins and resting his head on his knees.

“That is the question, indeed,” Yuuri says and puts the paper aside. “Who would be that stupid.”

“Don’t they know there are hunters in the city?” Phichit tilts his head to the side, and if it were not for the blood still sticking to the side of his mouth, he would have looked almost adorable. “That they are drawing attention to themselves?”

“I believe that attention is what they want, I’m afraid,” Yuuri says and leans back, closing his eyes for a moment. “It is far too obvious. I am sure that the League is already on it.”

Phichit lets out a discontent whine. “I don’t like the League…”

“You don’t have to worry about them as long as you stay careful and hidden.”

The League is an ever-present threat wherever they go, better organised in some countries and worse than in others, but in London, the organisation works exceptionally well. It is good for humans, and unfortunate for vampires. Young ones usually do not stand a chance. Over time, however, the British League has grown weaker in parts, a development that Emil blames their arrogance for. They are not as effective as they used to be, but Yuuri is sure that it is only a question of time until the League will start interfering again.

“Do you have any idea who might be doing this?” Phichit asks. “Why would anyone be so careless on purpose?”

“I do not know, Phichit,” Yuuri sighs, and saying it out loud makes it even more frustrating. “I really do not know. I need to do further research. Speak to others. Perhaps one of them has a clue.”

“Do we have to leave London if it does not stop?” Phichit sounds worried, and Yuuri understands why. He is young, and parting from places is difficult for him still, even after almost 80 years. He likes London, and Yuuri likes it too, but they have to be realistic about it.

“Perhaps,” Yuuri says, for he does not want to lie to Phichit. “But for now, you should not worry about that. Go and take a bath, and change the sheets. We are dead, not savages.”

* * *

Victor takes up Professor Olding’s offer of working in the archives of the University College two weeks after arriving in London. The man himself takes him there and shows him around, until he is called back to duty and he leaves Victor in the hands of the archivist. After telling the man what he is looking for, Victor finds himself taken downstairs into the basement where, as he has been told, he will find records of contemporary criminal history. The archivist leaves him alone and Victor begins his search, the results of the previous two weeks in mind.

His research has taken him back to the morgue two more times. The first time to look at the other bodies Detective Inspector Leroy has mentioned. The second time to examine yet another body, the newest of them all, and in a way, the saddest – for it belongs to a young girl, barely of age, and an orphan on top of that. There is no one left to mourn for her, no one left to miss her.

According to Leroy, all of them will have their funeral paid for by the League.

It is the very least they can do, Victor thinks, since the city of London, and the crown, too, have failed them.

The shelves in the basement are high, even for someone as tall as Victor, and navigating between them is not as easy as he had thought. Over time, the ink has faded on many of the labels meant to give at least some sort of guidance, and Victor finds himself lost between books and folders. With a sigh, he retreats to the narrow hallway between the shelves, where he realises that he is not alone.

A slim, dark figure stands a few metres away, moving so silently that Victor is sure he would not have noticed him had he not seen him. A pale hand is reaching up to take a book out of a shelf, a book so big that would have made any grown man’s wrist shake. Victor blinks, and he realises that it is Dr Katsuki, whom he has met at the ball.

Just then, Dr Katsuki turns his head, and recognition appears on his incredibly beautiful, tender face.

“Good afternoon,” he says softly and lets the heavy book slide under his arm. “Victor Nikiforov, was it not?”

Victor does not know why has stopped breathing for a moment, but he coughs as he hurries to respond.

“G-Good afternoon,” he says and clears his throat before he approaches the other man. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“Indeed,” Dr Katsuki says with a gentle smile and bows his head in greeting. “I do hope your headache is gone.”

“I’m sorry?” Victor frowns.

“Your headache,” Dr Katsuki says calmly, as if they had decided to meet right at this point, in a basement archive in the heart of London. “You were complaining about recurring headaches at the ball. I hope you are feeling better.”

“Oh!” Victor hurries to smile. “Yes, thank you. I haven’t had a headache since then.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Dr Katsuki says. “I would say that the London air becomes you, but that would be a horrendous lie. London air is pure poison. Even this basement has a better air quality.”

“Indeed, yes,” Victor says, and he knows that he would love to listen to him about various qualities of air for the rest of the day – how could he not want to, with a companion that speaks with a voice that is like velvet and soothing to the soul.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Dr Katsuki asks then. “Or are you simply browsing?”

Only then Victor remembers that yes, he is in an archive, and actually has something to do. It is incredible how distracting the man before him can be, by simply looking at him.

Victor takes a deep breath. “I fear I might have lost my overview of the shelves,” he admits. “I was looking for contemporary criminal history, specifically for records of the last fifty years. But I fear the archivist is at the other end of the building now.”

“Let me help you, then,” Dr Katsuki says and sets down his own choice of reading on a small table. “It should be down there.”

Dr Katsuki marches past him with swift steps that make almost no sound, as if he were floating. To see a man possess such elegance is new to Victor, the man’s movements reminding him more of a danseur than of a scholar. At the same time, Dr Katsuki’s entire posture speaks of dominance, of power, of a man not to mess with.

“You seem to know these archives very well, Sir,” Victor says, trying to make polite conversation.

Dr Katsuki briefly smiles at him over his shoulder. “I spend a lot of time here. Too much time, I dare to say. Sometimes, I even forget to eat over it. But when one is in the midst of research, one tends to forget these things.”

“Indeed,” Victor agrees, following the man further down the hallway. “So you are here quite often?”

“Yes. I do like to read,” Dr Katsuki says, repeating what he has said to the gentlemen at the ball. The mere thought of the way they have spoken to the other man annoys Victor. “I’m often here to do private research about this and that. One can come across many things in these London archives.”

They turn around a corner and it is there where Dr Katsuki comes to a halt, turning around to Victor. “These are the shelves with the documents about contemporary criminal history,” he says, gesturing at the boxes and folders. “Tables and reading lamps are six shelves this way and then to your right. Let me know if there is anything else that I can help you find. These halls are a maze.”

“Thank you,” Victor says and steps aside to let the man pass, watching him walk back to where they have come from. Again, his steps are almost inaudible.

Victor takes a moment to recollect himself, taking a few deep breaths before focusing on the shelf before him. The boxes are neatly labelled, the ink still readable, making it easy for him to find a starting point. Victor is not quite sure yet what to look for, but it is not his first time in an archive like this one, and he knows that he will eventually stumble upon something. A newspaper report, for example, or a note in an old case file, pointing out something odd.

With a box in his arms and a few folders on top, Victor goes back down the hallway, following the directions that Dr Katsuki has given him to the tables. The other man is already there, a few books sitting on the table before him as he reads, not looking up as Victor approaches. Victor decides to not disturb him and sets down the box and folders, pulling out a chair. It scratches over the floor most unpleasantly.

There is no clock in the basement, but Victor knows that an hour must have passed at least as he feels his neck becoming stiff. He sits back and reaches up to massage the muscle, glancing over at his silent companion. Dr Katsuki is still reading, sitting perfectly still, his pale hands resting on the pages of the book. Every now and then, he will turn to the next page, not even the paper making a sound, and Victor cannot help but wonder how the other man does it. His gaze wanders to the other books on Dr Katsuki’s table. They look old, their leather cover almost falling off.

What is most intriguing about them, however, is the fact that they are all in different languages. The top one is Arabic, followed by what Victor presumes must be Japanese. Then there is a German one, a Dutch one, and he assumes that the book Dr Katsuki is reading is probably written in yet another language.

“Do you actually speak all those languages?”

The question is out before Victor can stop himself, and it resonates painfully loud in the basement room. Dr Katsuki looks up.

“I would not be able to read these books if I were not,” he replies softly. “I believe that as a scholar, languages are a must if one wishes to truly educate oneself.”

“I agree,” Victor says. “Do you speak Russian, by any chance?”

Dr Katsuki shakes his head. “No. But I have always wanted to try it.” He gives Victor a small smile before he focuses on his reading again, and Victor does the same. There are times for conversation, but it is obvious that the other man wants to read in silence.

Case files are never a joy to read, and neither is working one’s way through old newspaper articles, but Victor has done it many times before. He knows what he has to look for, and what he can easily ignore. It is fortunate that journalists, as eager as they might be, often do not know what they are writing – they only care about getting a readership, which leads to them adding details that a short police report would leave out. Journalists love theories and adding emotions, and especially the latter is often found unimportant by Scotland Yard.

For someone like Victor, who is looking for things that upset the public, for things that will stir attention amongst even the ordinary people, emotions are important.

The public has definitely noticed that there are forces between Heaven and Earth that mean no good, even if they would not call them by their name. There have always been gruesome murders in London, and its people have always found their own explanations for them. They have always noticed everything out of the ordinary, and their observations have found their ways into the papers. Not always as articles, of course. Sometimes, they come as commentary, or as reader’s letters. Other times, as pamphlets, published by independent organisations, warning the Londoners to be wary, to not let the evil into the houses.

Victor is sure the League has a collection of all those pamphlets, too, as many times, ordinary people know and suspect more than they should.

He only looks up as he hears the sound of a heavy book being shut, and the scratching of a chair. Dr Katsuki is putting his books together, packing up, ready to leave.

“Oh, let me help you,” Victor says and immediately rises, his own reading forgotten. But Dr Katsuki only smiles at him, the young, fragile man apparently a lot stronger than he seems as he takes half of the books into his arms.

“That is very kind of you,” he says softly and steps aside so that Victor can take the other books and follow him down the hallway. The shelves are not too far away, but Victor feels the strain on his muscles after a few steps only, the books heavy in his arms. Dr Katsuki does not seem to be bothered by the heavy books at all, pushing them back into the empty slots with ease before he takes Victor’s load.

“I still find this all very impressive,” Victor admits. “To be able to speak all these languages, and even read them.” He gestures at the back of the book which he presumes is written in Chinese. “I am struggling enough with the two alphabets that I know. I would not know how to handle Chinese.”

Dr Katsuki chuckles. “That is Korean,” he explains. “But yes, I can imagine.”

Victor’s eyes widen. “Oh my, I am so sorry,” he says and bows his head in an apology. “I did not mean to offend you or your people, Dr Katsuki.”

“None taken,” Dr Katsuki assures him and clasps his hands behind his back. “You have no idea how often this happens, Sir. But people hardly ever bother to apologise. So thank you.” He looks warmly at him, with genuine gratitude, and Victor exhales in relief. At the same time, he cannot help but think back to the ball at the University College, and how the people have spoken about Dr Katsuki, either directly or behind his back.

He can only imagine what it must be like for Dr Katsuki, to hear comments like these, including the one he just made, on a daily basis.

And that hardly anyone ever apologises.

“I wish the British were less ignorant,” Victor says. “For then they would see how fortunate they are to have a scholar of your calibre amongst them.”

“Now you are flattering me,” Dr Katsuki smiles, and it knocks the breath out of Victor’s lungs. “And Scotland Yard is lucky to have someone as attentive as you helping them out.”

Victor tenses up, but Dr Katsuki only gestures back at the reading tables. “There usually is a very particular reason for a historian to do research in London’s criminal history. Do not worry. I shall keep your secret.”

The door to the basement archive opens with a terribly loud screech, followed by footsteps on the stairs.

“Now look at the time,” Dr Katsuki says, and it is like a repetition of their first meeting. He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. “I was supposed to be elsewhere an hour ago. But interesting perusal always occupies my mind far too much.” He tucks the watch back into his pocket and clasps his hands behind his back once more, looking up to face Victor. In the light of the gas lamps, his eyes are dark, almost black.

“I wish you the best of luck with your research, Mr Nikiforov,” he says and inclines his head, and Victor immediately does the same. “I hope that we shall meet again.”

“So do I,” Victor nods. “Have a good day, Sir.”

“I bid you the same.”

And with that, Dr Katsuki walks away, his footsteps almost silent on the floor as he disappears around the corner. Only as he is out of sight does Victor realise that he has been holding his breath again.

What an utterly fascinating man.

There is no other way to describe him.

* * *

A surprise visitor awaits Victor upon returning to his lodgings at Mrs Fairfax’. As he walks up the stairs to his apartment, he finds a very disgruntled, very impatient Detective Inspector Leroy pacing in front of his door.

“Finally!” The Canadian groans as he spots Victor. “Where in God’s name have you been, Nikiforov?”

“Out,” Victor replies calmly. “I was not aware that we were to meet today.”

“We were not,” Leroy replies.

“Then I do not understand why you possess the audacity to berate me about when I go out,” Victor gives back. “How can I help you, Detective Inspector?”

Leroy sighs and puts his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath, as if to remind himself to stay calm. Just like the first time Victor has met him, he realises once more that he does not like the man. Leroy finds himself far too important.

“We’ve arrested someone,” he says. “Someone we’ve seen near all the places where we’ve found bodies.”

“A human?” Victor asks politely

“Of course a human!” Leroy spats. “As if we were able to arrest vampires! Then we would not have a problem!”

He takes a deep breath, calming himself down once more. “Frankly said, the man’s a nutter. He keeps singing and hugging himself, as if he were dancing. I have no idea how I am supposed to interrogate him. I doubt he’s even aware that he’s been taken into custody.”

“Then why are you here to speak to me?”

“The man’s Russian,” Leroy explains. “He speaks English, but in my experience, an interrogation works better in the native language of the culprit.”

“That makes sense, yes,” Victor agrees and clasps his hands behind his back. “But I’m afraid I have never interrogated someone before. And besides, if the man is mentally unstable, as you say, should not a psychiatrist or someone of a similar profession conduct the interrogation?”

Leroy looks at him as if he has just bitten into a particularly sour lemon. He obviously does not like to be told about the rules of the League, who work ever so carefully in every regard. Even when it comes to interrogations led by the supporting local police force.

“Well, and where am I supposed to find a psychiatrist that Cialdini accepts?” Leroy asks in annoyance.

Viktor smiles. “I believe I have just the right candidate for you.”

* * *

“I knew you were not an ordinary historian,” Chris says a few hours later as they walk up the stairs to Scotland Yard’s main building. It is a cold evening, and a thunderstorm is approaching, but it is the perfect time for an interrogation. “After all, you are an acquaintance of dear old Ciao Ciao. Everyone knows that he works with the police when it comes to more particular crimes. I assume I am not allowed to ask about the precise nature of this case?”

“You are correct,” Victor says as they step inside and take off their hats. “As much as I wish I could tell you more.”

“Oh, do not fret, my friend,” Chris says and takes off his gloves. “I know what I need to know. This is not the first delicate matter I am supposed to help with. But it has nothing to do with the palace, has it?”

An excited shimmer appears in his eyes, and Victor gives him a look.

“Alright, alright,” Chris chuckles. “Not about the crown, then. How sad. I had hoped to become a confident in a proper scandal.”

“Believe me, the less you know, the better,” Victor assures him as he approaches the reception. “Victor Nikiforov and Christophe Giacometti here to see Detective Inspector Leroy.”

“Mr Nikiforov.”

The familiar voice of Celestino Cialdini reaches them, causing them to turn around. The Italian looks tired, but Victor spots the determination in his step as he approaches them. This is the first real trace that they have, after all.

“And Dr Giacometti.” Cialdini comes to stand before them and briefly nods. “I am glad you could come. I do not have to tell you, Dr Giacometti, that you must keep quiet about absolutely everything that you are about to see and hear.”

“Of course,” Chris says with a small nod.

“You will tell no one,” Cialdini says with more emphasis. “If you do, you will be arrested for high treason and executed.”

Chris seems not in the least taken aback, much to Victor’s surprise. “I expected as much,” he says. “I will do what I can to help.”

“Good.” Cialdini turns around and Victor and Chris follow him down the hallway, towards the interrogation rooms. “The man’s name is Georgi Popovich. He speaks good English, with the occasional Russian word in between. We thought it best to have a native speaker around for the interrogation. I told Leroy to take it easy, but you’ve met the man. He is overeager.”

“I believe that is the understatement of the year,” Victor replies dryly. “But yes.”

They turn around a corner and stop in front of an interrogation room, where Detective Inspector Leroy is already waiting, peeking into the room through a small window. Victor follows his gaze, spotting a young man inside, walking around and humming to himself.

“Has he been given food and water?” Chris asks.

“Yes,” Cialdini says.

“Good,” Chris nods. “But I think the interrogation should take place in a… warmer environment. In your office, perhaps?” He looks at Leroy, who looks like he his about to protest, but Cialdini’s presence seems to stop him.

“Fine, then,” Leroy mutters.

“Take him there,” Cialdini says. “Gentlemen, follow me, please.”

Victor can tell that Leroy does not like it at all that Cialdini has him bring the suspect, and to his very own office on top of that. They follow Cialdini back to the main hall and walk upstairs to what turns out to be Leroy’s personal office. It is warm there, the fireplace lit, and there are armchairs instead of hard benches. It is a most unusual environment for an interrogation, but Victor knows that Chris is right.

If the suspect is indeed a madman, the right environment might be even more crucial.

Leroy walks in with the suspect a minute later, and Victor takes a look at the man. Georgi Popovich is tall and has the typically pale, Russian complexion. His facial features are sharp but there is also a certain softness to them that speaks of a usually mild-tempered person. Were it not for the searching, worried look on his face, and for the man’s eyes darting back and forth between them, he would have been pleased to meet a fellow Russian.

“Georgi Popovich?” Cialdini says. “Take a seat, please.”

He gestures at the empty armchair between them, and much to their surprise, Popovich immediately sits down and clasps his hands on his lap.

“Do you have any idea why you’re here?” Leroy asks and shuts the door.

Popovich blinks. “No, Sir,” he says in earnest. “I’ve never been arrested, no. I’ve always been a good citizen of London.”

“I am sure about that,” Chris says before Leroy can say anything and sits down on the armchair opposite to their suspect. “My name is Dr Christophe Giacometti. I am a psychiatrist. Detective Inspector Leroy has asked me to help with this interrogation. This is just a conversation we will have, yes? We only want to ask you a few questions. Should you struggle with English, Mr Nikiforov will help you.”

“Oh?” Popovich looks up at Victor in almost childlike wonder. “Are you Russian, Sir?”

“I am,” Victor confirms. “Where in Russia are you from?”

“Moscow,” Popovich replies with a smile, and if Victor had not known better, he would have assumed the man to be drunk. “Do you miss Russia, too, Sir?”

“This is not about Russia!” Leroy spats, but Cialdini raises his hand and gives Leroy a warning look.

Chris clasps his hands on his lap.

“You are here because you have been seen at places connected to recent crimes,” he says. “Do you know of these crimes, Mr Popovich?”

“Is this about the dead people the papers write about?” Popovich asks, much to everyone’s surprise, and from the corner of his eye, Victor believes to see Leroy gasp for air.

“Yes,” Chris says with a nod. “So you know about them?”

“I didn’t kill them,” Popovich says with surprising calmness. “It is sad that they died, though. Isn’t it, Doctor?”

“Very much so, yes,” Chris agrees.

“I only took them there, but didn’t kill them. But they died, they died, they died for something bigger than themselves,” Popovich hums and looks up at Victor, who keeps a straight face, just like Cialdini, despite the fact that their suspect is confessing as if it were nothing. Only Leroy is not able to contain himself, almost throwing himself at the suspect.

“Something bigger than themselves?” Chris asks, leaning forward. “Do you mean God?”

Popovich’s eyes widen, and he immediately crosses himself. “No, no, not God,” he says. “She could not be further from God.”

“Who is _she_?” Chris scribbles something onto his notepad. “Your wife?”

Popovich smiles. “Oh, if she were my wife, I would be the happiest man of them all.”

“Who is SHE?!” Leroy barks and Popovich almost falls from the armchair.

“I must insist that you keep quiet, Detective Inspector!” Chris says firmly and reaches out to touch Popovich’s sleeve. “Do not listen to him. We’ll take our time with this. If she is not your wife, then who is she? A loved one?”

Popovich looks up at Leroy, who is fuming at the fact that he has been told off by a psychiatrist. But he keeps quiet, and as Popovich realises that, he turns back to look at Chris.

“Oh, I love her, I love her so, doctor,” Popovich says, and his eyes begin to sparkle. “But she is my mistress, not my wife.”

“Your mistress? As in a lover?”

“No, no!” Popovich cries and shakes his head. “No, she rules over me like a queen!”

“Like a queen, I see,” Chris nods. “Like her majesty? Like Queen Victoria?”

“How dare you compare our gracious queen to—”

“Leroy!”

“Oh you might say so, yes,” Popovich agrees. “But my mistress is not the queen of a country. She is the queen of the night.”

In an instant, the room falls silent. Even Leroy pauses, suddenly listening.

“How did you meet her?” Chris asks softly. “Would you like to tell me?”

“Oh, gladly,” Popovich sighs, as if he has been dying to tell this story. “You see, a long time ago, I lived in this beautiful little village near Moscow, in my late father’s house, with the most gorgeous garden. It had lilies and peonies and tulips and roses and bushes and the like, the most beautiful spot on God’s earth. And one evening, as I was just watering my flowers, the most mysterious fever came over me, and I fell. I had no idea what was happening to me, but then, I heard the voice of my mistress, of the queen of the night, right here, in my head.” He taps his temple. “And she told me the most wonderful things, doctor. And she said she had chosen me because I was the most charming. The moment I heard her voice, I knew that I would belong to her, and serve her gladly. Since then, I see everything that she sees. I follow the paths that she chooses. I can feel her. And ever since, I am her only witness when she strikes, but I must never tell anyone, for her kiss makes you undead.”

Victor took a deep breath, exchanging a quick glance with Cialdini, who is listening just as attentively as he is.

“Undead?” Chris asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Please do excuse my language.”

Chris sighs, looking down at his notes. “Mr Popovich, do you think you might be suffering from hysterical phantasms?”

“No, doctor! I see it as clear as the nose right there in your face!” Popovich assures him. “She is the most powerful, with no one to have power over her. Those that she kisses get the eternal life, a life beyond Heaven and Hell. Isn’t this the most precious gift, doctor? And I bring them to her! In the darkness of the night she sings her song, and oh, how she loves! And those who sing with her are granted the journey into everlasting happiness.”

“But who is this mistress, Mr Popovich?” Cialdini asks calmly. “Can you tell us?”

“Oh, I must not!” Popovich whispers. “The mistress wants all those who know her to keep her secret. And we must always be ready for her demands and wishes, and I am, Sir, I always am! She will give me freedom, the eternal freedom, because I have heard her call, the call of this good spirit that promises eternity. And yes, I know I have to trade the sun for the night, but what little cost this is, for the promise of liberty, the promise of never dying, of never growing old. What better thing is there, doctor, what better thing?”

He looks at Chris in an almost begging way before he wraps his arms around himself and begins to hum quietly. “I hear you, mistress… even now, I hear you…”

Chris looks up at Victor, and they both know that they won’t get any more words out of the man, not in this state. But for Victor, Cialdini, and Leroy, his ‘confession’ is already more than enough.

Leroy opens the door and calls in one of his colleagues to take Popovich back to his cell. The moment the door falls shut, Chris says: “I would say he suffers from hallucinations and delusions. The man is a danger to society, and to himself. He needs to receive treatment.”

“All in due time,” Cialdini says. “For now, we will keep him here for further investigations.”

“Ciao Ciao,” Chris says with a frown and rises. “I must insist. This man is ill, and a prison cell is not the right environment.”

“I promise that he will be taken to Bethlem Hospital as soon as we are done with him,” Victor assures him. “Isn’t that so?” He looks at Leroy and Cialdini, of whom the latter nods eventually.

“You have my word.”

Chris seems still displeased, but nods. “Fine. Then I assume my job here is done?”

“Please write a report of this and have it sent to me,” Leroy says. “For the files.”

Chris nods grimly and takes his coat and hat. “I shall call on you regarding our plans, Victor,” he says to the man, and Victor gives him a small smile.

“Thank you for helping us.”

“I helped you and Ciao Ciao,” Chris says and then looks at Leroy. “You, Sir, should learn that even the mad deserve to be treated with respect.”

He is out of the door before Leroy can reply.

“He is right,” Cialdini says with a sigh and sits down in the armchair that Popovich has occupied just minutes ago. “Now we know that we must look for a female vampire. I cannot say I am surprised. They are more aggressive than the male ones.”

“And Popovich functions as her puppet,” Victor concludes, crossing his arms over his chest. “He brings her the victims. The only question is why.”

“We will find out why.” Cialdini runs a hand through his hair. “This case reminds me of something that has happened in the past. In Russia, I believe.”

“Then I shall write to my uncle and ask him what he knows,” Victor says. It has been high time for him to do so anyway.

“Good,” Cialdini says. “Then that is all. I will inform you about any upcoming changes.”

Victor is glad to be out of the Scotland Yard building again, sighing in relief the moment he gets into a carriage and finds himself on the way home. It is rare to hear an account of someone who has encountered a vampire and lived. Popovich seems to be a vampire’s servant, even, and that is something Victor has only ever heard of. He has never met one – until now.

Back in his apartment, Victor sits down at the desk and writes a letter to his uncle. The man has raised him, taught him, prepared him for the evils of the world. Above all, he is Russia’s most successful vampire hunter, after Victor’s late parents.

Victor pauses in his writing.

His parents would have known even more.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes to pull himself together again.

It is for his parents. All of this is for his parents.

All of this brings him one step closer to the end.

_Finally, I ask you to tell me everything you know about my parents’ last few missions. I have a feeling that there might be something we have been overlooking, Yakov. I cannot tell what it is, but please, do not leave a single detail out, no matter how irrelevant it might seem._

_It must end. Perhaps I have found the final path, Yakov, for I hope it so._

_Your ever-loving, ever-loyal nephew,_

_Victor._

Outside, it begins to rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	4. Underthing Solstice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected encounters, realisations about immortality, hushed conversations behind curtains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is very dear to my heart, and I'm so happy that I could finally finish this chapter! It was a lot of fun to write.
> 
> I can only recommend the National Portrait Gallery in London - all the paintings described in this chapter can be found there. 
> 
> For the aesthetic of this chapter, I have chosen "Underthing Solstice" by Auri. Thank you to my dear Alex for showing me this song.

**[>> Underthing Solstice <<](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anMKMu9Tpoc) **

* * *

“You cannot be serious. You simply cannot be serious, my friend.”

Christophe looks shocked, deeply shocked even on this fine Wednesday morning. The clock has just struck half past eleven, and the street vendor has just handed them what seems to be buttered bread with meat slices, and Victor has to admit that it smells a lot better than it looks. But their choice of an early lunch is not what has Chris looking at him in disbelief.

“You are not fond of the arts?”

“I never said that,” Victor corrects him calmly. “I am very much fond of the arts. I do like theatre, and ballet. I am merely not too fond of art. Of galleries.”

“How can you not be fond of art galleries?” Chris sighs dramatically and exchanges a knowing look with the man selling their incredibly unhealthy meal, who shakes his head in similar disbelief. “Victor, my friend, you have come to one of Europe’s great cultural capitals. To not go to the galleries and see the masterpieces of the Empire is simply a sin! Have you never been to an art gallery in Russia?”

“I have,” Victor replies. “A long time ago.”

“Then you have lived without the magic of art for far too long,” Chris decides in a tone of voice that allows no room for debate. “It is settled, then. You and I shall go to the National Portrait Gallery. And no, I do not allow any objections,” he adds as Victor opens his mouth to protest. “I know you are busy, but so am I. One must engage with art every now and then, my dear friend. To lift the spirits. To nurture the soul.”

“Others might argue that a church is the place to nurture the soul.”

“No, no,” Chris says and puts his arm around Victor in a brotherly manner as they begin to walk down the road towards the park. “Listen. Church is the place where you go to mend the soul. But art, my friend, art is what nurtures our souls. What keeps our souls alive. Have you never heard an aria so beautiful that you were moved to tears? Have you never read a poem that broke your heart first, and then healed it, all at the same time? Have you never seen the work of art that another person’s body can be, the art that they create with their bodies in the way they move, in the way they exist?”

A slim, dark figure comes to Victor’s mind, a figure that walks to elegantly as if they were floating. Unreal, unearthly.

“That’s a very smitten look I see there,” Chris chuckles and pulls him out of his thoughts. “So you do know what I mean. But do not worry! I shall not lure it from you. It is a secret that you may keep to yourself. But it is decided, then. We shall go to the gallery. What do you think of Saturday? Around noon?”

“Alright, then,” Victor sighs and sits down on the bench Chris has directed him to. There, he takes a bite of their lunch, and surprisingly enough, it tastes rather good. Hearty. The kind of food that gives a man strength.

“I eat this once a week,” Chris tells him as he takes a seat beside him and crosses his legs. “But not more often than that, for it makes you fat over time if you do not have a physically demanding job. But it is food for the soul, as I call it. I often tell my patients – the ones that only come in for sessions, of course – to reconnect with their bodies through food, and to allow themselves such treats. They tend to forget that food is culture, too, and not just something that we need for survival.” He sighs thoughtfully at that and takes a bite from his own bread. “Say, what has become of the poor fellow that I spoke to at Scotland Yard?”

Victor shifts on his seat. “As far as I know, he is still in his cell. I have made sure it is a good one,” he assures his friend as Chris is about to protest. “I do not agree with keeping him in there either. I believe he is a madman that needs professional help. But the investigation is still ongoing, and therefore, he must remain in custody for the time being.”

Chris lets out a displeased huff, but he knows that there is little either of them could do about it. “At least he is not a threat to himself,” he murmurs between bites. “I have seen worse cases.”

“You have?”

“Oh, yes,” Chris says. “Terribly sad cases, you see. Sometimes, one cannot truly heal a patient. Some of them are… too ill. But I doubt that Popovich is such a case. All he needs is proper treatment to free him from his hysteric delusions.”

“Do you think there is a cure for him?” Victor asks. “A definite, final cure?”

Chris looks thoughtful for a moment. “I am not sure,” he says with hesitation. “Most mental illnesses can only be made bearable, you see. So that we can live with them, and have them not control us. But the poor man will most likely struggle for the rest of his life. Not to mention that he is guilty of assisted murder.” He sighs heavily and wraps his food up, as if he had suddenly lost his appetite. “I shall write a recommendation to keep him locked away. To not have him hanged. It would be wrong, and highly immoral, to do that with a mentally ill person. We must not hold him accountable of what he has done.”

Victor is not sure whether to agree with his friend or not. But that is the curse with being a hunter of vampires, as those that he usually hunts down are guilty of being godless and of murder, and that alone justifies their execution – to have their existence wiped off the surface of the earth. What Popovich has done is to collaborate with the most evil of existences. He has allowed it to awaken the evil inside himself, and has acted upon it, and that alone is a reason to punish him. For the greater good.

But Popovich is a madman, and Victor has a beating heart that pities the man, despite everything.

To keep his heart alive and able to feel was one of the things his late mother and father have taught him. Back then, he had not understood what that could possibly mean. Now, he understands better than ever.

“All of it lies in the hand of those that make the law,” Victor concludes. “And in the hands of those who execute it.”

“Well said,” Chris says and pulls out his pocket watch. “Ah, I fear I must go back to work. But Saturday it is?”

“Saturday it is,” Victor confirms and wraps up his own food to eat the rest of it at home. They rise, smooth out their coats and walk back across the street.

“Are you not going to the archives today?” Chris asks.

“I have an appointment with Mr Cialdini in an hour,” Victor replies. “So, no. Not today. And besides, I still have a rather large stack of files to look through waiting at my desk at home.”

Chris grimaces. “Paperwork is what I loathe the most,” he says. “However, I shall wish you the best of luck for whatever it is you are researching. And please do give Ciao-Ciao my best regards.”

“I shall,” Victor promises and briefly bows his head at Chris, and his friend does the same, before their ways part again. Chris walks as if he owns the place, Victor thinks as he watches him head down the road towards the hospital. There is always a swing in his step, always a smile on his lips, always mischief in his eyes. Chris, Victor thinks, never hesitates. He lives, and he does so with grand gestures, without hesitation and regret. Would he be the same, Victor wonders, if he were an ordinary man, with an ordinary job, an ordinary life?

But those are thoughts that lead to nowhere, and that are a waste of time, for they have no relevance. At least, not at the moment.

Of course, Victor has thought about his future, and what he might do once he has accomplished his goal of taking revenge. But it feels hard to imagine life after finding and killing the vampire that took his family from him. What skills has he, what qualities, that could possibly help him to survive in a world beyond the League? Victor knows that this is the reason why people never really leave the League, for it is the only life that they know. It is the only option for the majority.

He can think about options at a later point, Victor decides as he approaches the building of the gentlemen’s club where Cialdini keeps his office. Since coming to London, Victor has become a member of the club, too, and no longer needs invitations in order to be let in. He leaves his coat and hat with the servant that greets him, then makes his way upstairs to the office of the Italian. The door stands ajar, and Cialdini can be seen standing at the fireplace, throwing strips of paper into the flames. Only as Victor knocks he looks up, his eyes attentive and determined.

“Mr Nikiforov,” he says as Victor comes in. “What on earth is that?”

He looks down at Victor’s hand that still holds the midday meal, wrapped in paper.

“I believe it is called a butty, Sir,” Victor says with slight embarrassment, just as the smell of fatty, oily meat fills the room. “I am terribly sorry, I forgot that I was even holding it. I should have thrown it away.”

“Is the food at the club so poorly made that you were forced to get food like this?” Cialdini asks and rings the bell for a servant, who promptly comes in and takes the bread away from Victor, replacing it with a warm, wet cloth to wipe his hands on.

“N-No, of course not,” Victor assures him and takes the seat that Cialdini is gesturing at. “It was Mr Giacometti’s idea. He is quite fond of… butties.”

Cialdini hums, picking up a letter from his desk before joining Victor by the fireplace again. “This arrived just yesterday from Vienna. A brief summary of similar cases like ours. Apparently, the League there was able to track down a group of very young vampires who had been hiding in the canal system of the city. So young that they were not even aware of that they were undead.”

“They had been left on their own?” Victor asks with a small frown. “How very unusual.”

“Indeed,” Cialdini agrees and hands him the letter to study its content for himself. “Needless to say, it was a simple thing to exterminate them, and the problem solved itself. I fear that our case is not as simple. We must look further into that whole ‘mistress’ thing of Popovich, I believe.”

“Do you think he’s a madman?” Victor asks, folding the letter and returning it to the other man.

“Certainly,” Cialdini nods. “But that does not make him less guilty.”

“Of course not. But to have him hanged seems not quite right either.”

Cialdini leans back in his seat, watching Victor thoughtfully, as if to take him apart layer by layer, bit by bit. “You should not always listen to what Dr Giacometti has to say. He does not see the world the way we do. He does not know true evil.”

“And we both know it is hard to find true evil and to recognise it as such,” Victor gives back. “All I am saying is that execution of a human being should be well-justified.”

“And murder is not?”

“Assisting a murder,” Victor corrects him. “Whilst being mad. Under the influence of unearthly forces.”

Cialdini huffs. “The judge won’t see it that way. All that can save him from hanging is a doctor’s assessment of his condition of which I doubt that it exists.”

“But then again, it is Dr Giacometti’s field of expertise, and he will know best,” Victor says, in a tone of voice that ends the debate. Cialdini is chewing on his lower lip, clearly displeased with being talked back at, but Victor is not his inferior, but of equal rank and entirely entitled to his own opinion.

“You spend a lot of time with Dr Giacometti,” Cialdini says. “It might be quite useful for us. I am sure you will find an invitation to Professor Olding’s private soirée in your lodgings tonight. I have received mine this morning. I cannot attend, but I think you should. Make sure that Olding likes you, and you will have all doors in London open. Giacometti is always invited to such events, so you would not be alone there.”

“Do you think I should keep looking in the archives of the university?” Victor asks. “Or perhaps continue at the British Museum’s library?”

“You might meet a few interesting people at the soirée,” Cialdini says. “They have private archives of their own that you should try to get access to. It should not be a problem with Professor Olding’s support. But the library of the British Museum does sound sensible to me, too.”

A brief knock on the door makes them look up, a butler entering the room with a serious expression on his face. “Dr. Harrison is waiting for you in the parlour, sir.”

Cialdini sighs. “Have him wait there. I am not done here yet.”

The butler closes the door behind him, and Victor wonders what else the man might have to say to him.

But for a good minute, Cialdini does not say anything at all. Instead, he rises from his seat and walks back to the fireplace, studying the porcelain figures he keeps on the mantlepiece. Only as Victor looks closer, he sees what they are.

Angel figures that slay demons.

“You are here to avenge your parents’ murder,” Cialdini murmurs then, more to himself than to Victor. “But what will you do, Nikiforov, when all is said and done?” He grasps the mantlepiece with both hands, staring into the flames. “It is the question we all ask ourselves. What will we do when the last of evil is finally gone, and our mission complete? What if it will never be complete? What if the bloodshed will be endless for those who come after us? There is still so much we do not know about this evil that we fight, my friend. You are young. You have a simple concept of what is good, and what is evil. That is nothing you have to be ashamed for, I am merely telling you how it is. We can, of course, go on with our method of finding and killing the evil, but we have yet to find its roots. Like a rotten tree that threatens to poison the trees around it, we must find the very core of this rottenness that has infested our world. We must eliminate the origin of it. Not just its derivatives.” With every sentence he speaks his voice becomes harder and colder, the determination in it speaking of the long and exhausting fight, of the incomprehension of anyone that does not look as far.

It is not that Victor had never thought of it, or had not come up with his own theories. And of theories, there are plenty. He has discussed a lot of them with Yakov, has regarded them all from several perspectives, and yet, none of them seem to suffice. A popular starting point is to look for answers in the Bible, or the Quran, or any other religious text.

None of Victor’s research has ever led to a satisfying answer.

Sometimes, he dares to think the unthinkable, and regards vampires as an intentional creation of the Lord.

But such evil could not stem from God, Yakov had said when he had told him about it for the first time. For God had promised, after the Flood, to never bring such harm over humankind again.

The assumption that perhaps, vampires had not been affected by the Flood and had hence survived until today, is something that Victor has never dared to say out loud.

Not even to Yakov.

“But that is not what you are here for,” Cialdini says, lifting his gaze again to look at Victor, who has been watching him all this time. The Italian stands up straight again and walks back to his armchair, but he does not sit down. “You wish to avenge your parents’ death, first and foremost. That is noble of you, and I have no doubt that you will achieve this goal. But you should think of what you might do afterwards, too. The League is always in need of people like you, Nikiforov.”

Victor frowns. “I do not understand.”

“You are smart,” Cialdini states bluntly. “You are quiet, calm, and composed. You fit in anywhere. You have the ability to distinguish important matters from mindless strings of information. You see the details where others might only see chaos.”

It is a rather odd description of his character, and Victor begs to differ in many points, but Cialdini does not pause to let him respond to any of that.

“I believe that you could become a valuable asset in our endeavour of exterminating the root of evil for once and for all, Mr Nikiforov. You could finish what your parents have started.”

“I believe that my parents had many different things to focus on in their lives, Mr Cialdini,” Victor interrupts him sharply. “In their lives were more things of importance than just the League and the fight against the evil. I do not know how things are done here in England, but I must ask you to not make suppositions of what might or might not have been their attempted legacy.”

Cialdini clasps his hands behind his back, studying him attentively, as if taken slightly aback by the underlying aggressiveness of Victor’s tone.

“Well,” he says eventually, straightening his posture, “of course, you must know for yourself. But consider the offer.”

Victor rises from his seat and straightens his posture, just like Cialdini. “I might think about it,” he says. “If that is all, I would like to continue with the paperwork now that is waiting for me at home.”

“Certainly,” Cialdini nods. “Do not forget to keep Dr Giacometti close to you.”

As if that were of any concern, Victor thinks.

* * *

It is indeed an impossible thing to ever get rid of Christophe Giacometti.

Not that Victor minds. He finds that the man is a great companion, a dear friend, even, despite the fact they have known each other for a few weeks only. In many ways, the young doctor is the person that Victor would most likely have been if the League had not been part of his life ever since the death of his family. In even more ways, Victor begins to think as his friend chats to him as they walk up the stairs of the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square, the man is quite the opposite of him. With his positive outlook on life, his general contentment with the world, and his bonhomie, he is a crass contrast to everything that Victor has known. There are no people of his age that Victor would call his friends, and his uncle is a rather somber, earnest man in everything he does.

To have someone like Christophe Giacometti as his company now feels very much like peeking into another world with hesitated fascination.

For Chris is a man whose worries are nothing compared to those that torment Victor at night – not that this makes them any less valid.

It is merely refreshing, Victor realises as Chris complains to him about his landlord’s habit of airing out the rooms all day even in winter – “The temperature in my bedroom! As if it were the Antarctica!” – that beyond the work for the league, and beyond the evil that he has to face, there is still the life of ordinary people in this world.

Not that Victor would ever call his friend ordinary.

“Now, here we are,” Chris says as they enter the gallery, clasping his hands behind his lap and looking around in the entrance hall like a child that has just entered the living room on Christmas morning. “A magnificent place, don’t you think? I do come here quite often.”

“What is your favourite collection?” Victor asks, taking a small leaflet from the elderly woman behind the reception desk.

“I quite enjoy the Tudor gallery,” Chris says, almost admitting it like a shameful secret. “Awfully ordinary, I know. But it does have a certain effect to stand before the paintings of those grand kings and queens, to look at these truly tragical figures. It does remind oneself of the essence of life. How fragile it is.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you are quite the poet?” Victor chuckles as they ascend the next set of stairs together.

Chris smirks. “Some have enjoyed the fruit of my pen, you know.”

Victor internally groans, knowing very well that when it comes to Christophe Giacometti, everything can have a double meaning and be quite serious as well as a scandalous remark at the same time.

“I am quite sure they have,” he says dryly.

“Oh, but I am completely serious,” Chris chuckles. “I do write sometimes. Poetry, that is. For my lovers in particular. There is nothing more romantic, I believe, than carefully selected words, arranged in beautiful order, to paraphrase the things you want to do to your lover’s body…”

“Alright, I believe that is something you should keep to yourself, my friend,” Victor interrupts him as they walk past a pair of elderly women that have happened to listen and whose eyes widen in shock. They have now reached the upper level and the entrance to the Tudor gallery that Chris so prefers over everything else.

“You should write poetry, too,” Chris remarks with a wink. “Have you never written a letter to a lover?”

“Frankly spoken, no,” Victor replies and studies the leaflet in his hands.

“You must be jesting,” Chris says with a faked gasp. “No love letters? No hidden declarations of your adoration and desire? Not even the other way round?”

“I am afraid I did not have much time for romance and other things of that particular kind so far,” Victor informs him calmly. “So, no.”

Chris looks at him in utter fascination, and Victor is sure that his expression will soon turn to disappointment, and then to pity, because that is what always happens when people that are not part of the League learn about his lack of a private life. About his lack of love in particular.

Instead, he finds sympathy in Chris’ green, intelligent eyes, and understanding, too.

“We all have different priorities in our lives,” he says softly. “We must only make sure that they are indeed our priorities, and not those that others have imposed upon us.”

The way he says it feels strange to Victor, as if there were more to Chris’ words than he can find in them now. But then again, Chris is a psychologist, a medical man, and a person with great empathy on top of that.

Perhaps that is why he understands, Victor thinks, even if he is not aware of how close he is to the truth that Victor carries, locked away, deep inside his heart.

“I suppose so,” he says, folding the leaflet in the middle.

Chris pats his back. “Now come, my friend. Let us enjoy the art and you will see how it nurtures your soul. For by the Heavens, I do think you need it.”

The rooms that make up the Tudor gallery are surprisingly small, Victor realises as they enter through the archway and find themselves face to face with the people of the past. As a child, Victor had often visited galleries with his parents, both of them fond of the arts. Especially his mother had enjoyed looking at paintings, and, being an artist herself, she had often made sketches.

All of them are still in Victor’s possession, all of them items he holds most dear.

His own skills with the pencil or brush are not too terrible, but he has never quite mastered the craft like his mother.

“Look at her,” Chris sighs and approaches the painting of Queen Elizabeth I., the artwork portraying her in all her glory. “Isn’t she magnificent?”

“Indeed, she is,” Victor says, coming to stand beside his friend. “The detail in this is—”

The words die on his tongue as he hears a familiar voice coming from behind the wooden partition, speaking a language so unique that it can only belong to one particular person. And indeed, as they turn their heads, they find themselves face to face with Dr Katsuki and his loyal companion whose name, Victor realises, seems all too impossible to remember.

However, that is not the case for his friend, whose face immediately lights up at the unexpected company and steps forward as if to meet Her Majesty.

“What a coincidence,” Chris says smoothly and bows his head before Victor can do so. “Dr Katsuki and Mr Chulanont. What a pleasure to see you here. Are you using the day to enjoy some fine English culture, too?”

If Chris had been watching closer, Victor is sure, he would have noticed the surprise and shock that had appeared on the foreigners’ faces for merely a split second before going back to normal. Now they appear as if they had not been alarmed at all, yes, as if their meeting was a most delightful coincidence.

Dr Katsuki bows his head politely in greeting, and so does Mr Chulanont, albeit with some hesitation and utter fixation on Chris.

“Good afternoon,” Dr Katsuki says softly and nods at each of them. “And yes, we thought today a good opportunity to explore more of this city. My dear friend here has yet to study the history of the Empire.”

“Then where would be a better place to start, if not in a place like this?” Chris says, his gaze more on Mr Chulanont than on Dr Katsuki, and Victor wonders if the other men notice. “With such historical significance.”

“Indeed.” Dr Katsuki clasps his hands behind his back. “It is a magnificent place.”

“And do you enjoy the Tudor gallery, too, Mr Chulanont?” Chris asks the other man, who is still looking at him in utter fascination, his brown eyes sparkling in what can only be named desire.

“Oh, very much so,” he breathes. “I do particularly enjoy the painting of the young lady in red.”

Chris’ face lights up. “Then I must tell you the story of it!” He says and takes the young man by the arm, leading him away to said painting. “Did you know that is a painting of the young Princess Elizabeth?”

“Really?”

Dr Katsuki smiles to himself, chuckling even just like Victor as their friends walk away to the painting, eyes fixated on each other as if they were alone already. Chris pours out his knowledge before the young man, all of it meant to impress, and Mr Chulanont listens with interest that is most definitely _not_ directed at what Chris has to say.

One could not possibly be less subtle, Victor thinks.

“It does not surprise me that you are fond of the arts, Mr Nikiforov” Dr Katsuki says softly. “Most historians have a heart for the beautiful things in life.”

“I would not limit that to historians,” Victor says as they begin to slowly walk through the room, side by side. “But to scholars in general.”

Dr Katsuki hums. “Would you say that only the learned know how to appreciate art?”

Victor’s eyes widen. “Of course not!” He assures him immediately, but the other man only chuckles.

It seems to reach right into Victor, into his heart.

“I am only jesting,” Dr Katsuki says softly. “I would never think so little of a man of your expertise, Mr Nikiforov.”

They have reached the wall on the far end of the room, standing before the painting of a woman in black, around her neck a pearl necklace, the pendant hanging from it a simple _B._

Dr Katsuki leans forward to study the label before looking up again, in his eyes utter fascination for what is before them.

“Do you know her history?” Victor asks him. After all, he knows not how much the Japanese know about English history, or about the people in it.

“I do,” Dr Katsuki says, his dark eyes taking in every feature, every detail, as if to remember it all forevermore. “Anne Boleyn.”

Her name comes softly over his lips, with surprising sympathy that one rarely finds in a conversation about her.

“I have always found her a very tragic figure,” Victor says softly, studying the woman’s features, forever preserved on the canvas. “A life like hers to come to such a tragic end.”

Dr Katsuki tilts his head to the side, as if in deep thought. “I agree,” he says softly, “but at the same time, I believe that she is one of the many people in history that underestimated the consequences of her actions.”

Victor looks back at the painting and thinks back of the day he first learnt about her, not just the facts from the books but the facts that only the League could supply. He remembers how shocked he had been to learn that Anne Boleyn had been a vampire, and that the reason that she had not been burned but beheaded was solely to hide the fact that the king himself had shared the bed with the personified evil. Burning a vampire would have shown the people who she had truly been.

In the light of that knowledge, Dr Katsuki’s words have an even greater impact.

Victor looks at him, and finds the other man looking at the painting almost wistfully.

“Do you pity her?” He asks.

Dr Katsuki sighs softly, the sound of it hitting Victor right into the heart like a dagger.

“She serves people as a reminder,” Dr Katsuki says and looks up at Victor, his eyes full of a certain distanced kind of sympathy that Victor cannot quite explain. “To have one’s life remembered as a warning reminder is rather sad, would you not agree?”

Before Victor can say anything in return, Dr Katsuki has turned his head and walks away from the painting to the next.

Victor follows him wordlessly.

A few metres ahead of them, Chris and Mr Chulanont are still admiring the portrait of the young Princess Elizabeth, but the conversation has obviously moved past the topic of art, for Mr Chulanont giggles at the – probably scandalous – story that Chris is telling him.

“They seem to get along awfully well,” Victor remarks to Dr Katsuki, who follows his gaze and studies his companion and the Swiss thoughtfully.

“I agree,” he says. “But dear Phichit often does not know where to put his head when it comes to other people.”

It is a rather odd thing to say about a friend, Victor thinks, and if he is being honest, he has no idea what that is supposed to mean. But they keep walking, their friends always within sight.

“Are you enjoying London so far?” Dr Katsuki asks. “The place is awfully overwhelming at the beginning.”

“Indeed,” Victor agrees. “I do enjoy it, though. How about you? Since when have you been here?”

“It must have been several weeks now,” Dr Katsuki says. “I am mainly here for research, though. Just like you.”

“How do you find the community of scholars, then?” Victor asks with genuine interest. “For if I am to be completely honest, I find them dreadfully dull.”

Dr Katsuki laughs, a laugh so sweet and carefree that it even makes Mr Chulanont turn his head in surprise.

To Victor, it is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard.

“They are indeed,” Dr Katsuki says with an amused smile. “But I have yet to find you dull, Mr Nikiforov.”

“I agree,” Victor says, smiling himself. “It is rather refreshing to speak to a fellow scholar that is not only living behind the pages of books or in a laboratory. To actually speak to someone who has something to say. I do value that above everything else.”

Dr Katsuki’s gaze softens. “Your values are most interesting, Mr Nikiforov. But I do share them.”

For a moment, they only look at each other, not saying a word until a soft gasp breaks the almost holy silence in the room. Victor turns his head, finding Chris and Mr Chulanont standing awfully close together, almost whispering into each other’s ears.

Dr Katsuki clears his throat.

As if hit by an invisible whip, Mr Chulanont steps back, bowing his head as Dr Katsuki clasps his hands once more.

“I fear that my dear companion and I have to leave now, as we are further engaged,” he says softly, bowing his head to first Chris, then to Victor. “It was a pleasure to meet you here. Have a pleasant day.”

“Have a good day,” Victor says, watching as the foreigners walk around the corner and disappear, just as quiet and discretely as they had appeared on the scene.

Chris is the first of them to speak again, his voice barely more than a whispered breath. “He is most charming, isn’t he.”

Victor only nods.

That they both mean entirely different people neither of them realise.

* * *

For a vampire as young as Phichit, every single day, every single night is a struggle in itself.

Yuuri remembers it only too well. There is a constant sensation of dying of starvation in the first few months of the life in death, a sensation that is meant to make a vampire hunt, to teach them what they need to sate their hunger. It is this forceful sensation that teaches them to approach their prey, to sink their teeth into them, and to drink the essence of life.

It does take control, however, to know when to begin, and where to stop.

Unfortunately, control is the very last thing a young vampire has when it comes to hunger and desire.

Even after almost a century, Phichit is still very much the young and reckless boy he had turned out to be the moment he had opened his eyes in his new life for the very first time. He does not think further than his next meal, living only for the moment, for his enjoyment and for pleasure. It is not that Yuuri can blame him for it – after all, he has been like this, too, a long time ago. And oh, his own creator has struggled enough with him. Perhaps it is some form of retaliation that he now has to care for someone like Phichit, who often reminds him of an overexcited puppy.

Going to the National Portrait Gallery had been a test – a test to see how well Phichit would fare amongst mortals in a quiet, spatially limited environment. For vampires as young as him, it is usually no longer a problem to mingle with humans out in the streets, where their scents mingled in the air and become a shapeless mist. But in rooms where only a few humans were, it is much harder to ignore the sweet scent of their blood, each specimen assaulting their senses with full force.

Hence, the gallery.

The test had, in Yuuri’s opinion, been going rather well until they had run into Mr Nikiforov and Dr Giacometti, the latter of rather particular interest to his young companion for some reason. It certainly had not helped that the man had shown great interest in Phichit, too, unknowingly enticing the part of Phichit that was the most lethal.

It also does not help that Phichit, despite being young, and childish, and going through his second adolescence, cannot let the subject go.

“He smelled so good!” The young vampire cries as he throws himself over the sofa in their drawing room, very much like a war widow after receiving the most devastating of news. “What an interesting man. What a most charming, fascinating man!”

He lets out a long, pained whine that does not even make Yuuri look up from his books. Indeed, it is not the first time that Phichit has been obsessed with a particular human, obsessed with the scent of their blood and with the essence of their lives. It does happen to the best of their kind.

“His cheeks were so rosy,” Phichit breathes, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “How his cheeks flushed when he turned to face me. How red his lips were when he leant in to whisper in my ear.”

Yuuri sighs to himself and turns to the next page.

“But what a shame,” Phichit whispers, all of a sudden very somber and earnest, “that I cannot have him, for his disappearance would surely be noticed.”

Yuuri frowns, looking up, watching his young companion carefully.

“And what a shame it would be,” Phichit continues with wide eyes, “what a shame indeed, if he were to die. No, I don’t want that, no.”

Yuuri closes the book and turns fully around to his friend.

There is a process in the life of a vampire that Yuuri has come to call a second adolescence – a process of growth and of regaining one’s senses. He has gone through it, too, with the help of his own creator, regaining parts of the person he had been in his past life.

It is a long process, and a painful one, too. For a vampire’s emotions are strong, and they run very high when facing something that their dark nature does not understand.

And so, Yuuri feels Phichit’s confusion in his own heart, and he gets up to sit by his side and pulls him closer, letting him rest his head on his lap.

Phichit whines in frustration and curls up into a ball, his fist grasping the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt.

“He is too perfect,” he breathes. “Too perfect. Too good.”

“I know,” Yuuri says quietly and runs a hand through Phichit’s hair.

“And I want him but if I have him then he will be dead!” Phichit cries. “But I want him so!”

“I know, Phichit,” Yuuri sighs and lowers his head to press a kiss to his companion’s hair. “I know it is not easy.”

“It hurts,” Phichit sniffs and looks up. “Why does it hurt me, Yuuri? Why is there such pain?”

“It is part of becoming who you are,” Yuuri tells him softly, “and of becoming who you always were. It has never left you.”

Phichit swallows thickly, the confusion still evident in his eyes. “I don’t understand that.”

He is still too young, too reckless, too much of a newborn vampire to truly understand the change that is happening inside him, but Yuuri knows he has to be patient. With time, Phichit will understand the change, too.

“Give it time,” Yuuri says. “But I can assure you that even if it confuses you, it is good.”

Phichit pouts. “How could pain possibly be good,” he murmurs, resting his head on Yuuri’s lap again with a heaviness as if he were tired of life itself. That is, of course, the farthest from the truth.

“Pain is essential in nature,” Yuuri tells him. “Through pain, we learn. A child will only touch a flame once and never again. What is that, if not a learning process?”

“But I am not a child,” Phichit huffs, very much like a small child.

“Of course not,” Yuuri chuckles. “But in this life, you are one.”

He kisses him again, this time on the lips, and he hopes that it will pacify his young companion for the time being.

When he pulls away, however, Phichit is looking at him with a frown on his forehead, in his eyes now a different kind of confusion, as if questioning a truth he has always lived by.

It is a sight Yuuri rarely ever sees on his usually so carefree friend.

“Why do you despise it so?” Phichit asks him. “This life that we have. What is immortality if not a second chance?”

It is not the first time that Phichit has asked him this question, but the first time it sounds truly genuine.

“We are static,” Yuuri says softly. “Frozen. The exact opposite of what is natural. So I wonder what kind of second chance this is supposed to be.”

“Well, for everything,” Phichit says seriously. “For life.”

Yuuri sighs quietly to himself, playing with a strand of Phichit’s hair. “I ask you to reflect on where you would be now, had you not been turned,” he says softly, “where you would be if we had never met.”

“I would be dead. You saved my life.”

“Yes, but I was not the one who took it from you,” Yuuri reminds him calmly. “If you had not been stabbed that night, you would have grown old. You would have had a family. Children, and grandchildren, even. That is how it should have been. You should have had a life.”

Phichit is very quiet for a long time, and he clasps his hands on top of his belly.

“I find it very hard to imagine that,” he eventually admits.

Yuuri truly cannot blame him.

If he is being honest, he cannot imagine such a life for himself either – perhaps because his human life lies too far in the past for him to remember most of it. He does remember certain details, of course. A few faces, even, and yes, even the name of the place where he had lived. But his human life lies in the past now, and could be forgotten entirely if Yuuri wanted to.

At the same time, he hopes for another life, another human life, to be waiting for him.

He only needs to find out how to reverse what has been done to him.

But in order to get through to the core, and eventually to the cure of his existence, he has to go right back to the beginning.

As far as he knows, no other vampire has ever gone as far before.

And therefore, he keeps mostly quiet about what he does, and what he is looking for. Only Phichit truly knows it, and he would never tell.

Yuuri does not let him.

“I am thirsty,” Phichit groans on his lap and looks up at him with pleading eyes. “Please, can I go out tonight?”

“You fed two days ago,” Yuuri says firmly. “And I will certainly not let you go out alone.”

“But master!” Phichit cries and sits up immediately, grasping Yuuri’s hand. “It has been almost a week now. I cannot wait for much longer! My throat, it hurts me so! Please, if you will not let me go on my own, then come with me!”

Yuuri sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. The only reason that Phichit feels such hunger now is his confusion, Yuuri knows that, including the fascination with Dr Giacometti that is upsetting him. But to let him go out to hunt in such a state would be highly irresponsible.

It would only lead to Dr Giacometti making the news the next day – by his body washing up on the shore of the Thames.

“You fed only two days ago,” Yuuri repeats calmly and drops his hand. “But if your throat hurts you so, you may drink from me.”

Phichit’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Really, master?!”

“Yes,” Yuuri says tiredly, and Phichit is back in his lap before he knows it, his hands on his shoulders and his teeth on his neck, breaking the skin.

Warmth floods through Yuuri as Phichit sinks his teeth into his flesh, the very warmth that mortals feel when being bitten, the very force that makes them go limp. But to Yuuri, it is only pleasure, and his mind stays clear as Phichit drinks from him. Only a soft moan comes over his lips, and Phichit presses himself against him.

Any other night, Yuuri thinks, he would have carried Phichit to bed with him now. But the desire to do so is not there tonight, not even as Phichit presses down on his lap showing his clear intention.

Something holds him back, and Yuuri does not know what it is.

There are worse fates.

* * *

There are certain things to keep in mind when attending a soiree.

Number one is, of course, appropriate attire. One cannot show up in inappropriate clothing, let alone evening wear – no, that would be far too much for a soiree that is meant to be a private dinner in someone’s home.

For the gentlemen, shift, breeches, shirt, waistcoat, cravat, overcoat, hat, and buckle shoes will usually do. Of that, Victor owns two sets of excellent quality. They fit like a glove, and once more remind Victor of the excellent tailor they frequent in St. Petersburg.

Number two is to keep the etiquette.

There are many unspoken rules of the upper British society that Victor still does not quite understand. However, as a foreigner, he is allowed to make a few mistakes. But even the patience of the kindest host has its limits, and so, Victor always tries to follow the rules.

Number three is to keep in mind with whom you are speaking.

Victor would very much like to yawn at the endless story that Professor Olding’s mother-in-law is telling him, but he naturally knows better than that. The woman is ancient, and Victor is sure that were it not for the miracles of medicine, she would have been biting the dust a long time ago. The way she speaks reminds him of a frog, the sound of her voice more like a croak than anything else. Her frail hand is shaking and the content of her glass is dangerously close to ending up all over the expensive carpet. And yet, Victor smiles calmly, as if she were telling him the most interesting story in the world, knowing better than to take her wrist like a _savage_. Fortunately, Professor Olding’s wife soon comes to the rescue, calling them for dinner and taking the glass out of the old woman’s hand.

Number four is to never, ever, stare at the person seated opposite to you at the dinner table.

It is, as Victor comes to realise far too late, the most impossible task when it is Dr. Katsuki that is sitting there. He is impeccably dressed, his dark hair combed back and showing off the beautiful features of his youthful face. But even in the light of the chandelier, he is terribly pale, as if the English weather does not become him at all. He is in a polite conversation with the person next to him, an older gentleman that Victor recognises from the ball where he first met the Japanese man. And so, Dr Katsuki fortunately does not seem to notice that Victor cannot help but look at him.

He would have a hard time explaining that without appearing as if he were gawking at the ‘exotic foreigner’.

Chris, however, seems to have the very same struggle with having Mr Chulanont sitting opposite to him. But unlike Dr Katsuki, Mr Chulanont stares back, his tongue licking the spoon in his hands almost seductively.

It is a miracle that no one besides them seems to notice.

Next to Victor sits the daughter of the house. Miss Olding is barely seventeen, he has learnt from her mother upon sitting down, and very much interested in the arts. She is a pretty thing, Victor has to admit that, and he has to admire the courage – that she speaks to him despite being clearly nervous. It is probably the first soiree her parents allow her to attend, doubtlessly to find her a good husband.

Unfortunately, their efforts are wasted when it comes to Victor Nikiforov. But it would be certainly fatal to tell the poor girl that.

Nothing destroys newly found confidence faster than well-meaning rejection.

And so, he listens as attentively as he can to the young girl, nodding at her description of her latest trip to an art exhibition. If he only listens, he thinks, he will surely look less at Dr Katsuki, and more at her, as would be appropriate.

Victor fails spectacularly every few seconds.

Dinner in England, as it turns out, is quite the grand affair, even at a soiree. Or rather; especially at a soiree, Victor realises as the main course is served and he does not quite know where to look. The cook of the Oldings must be a true master of the arts, he thinks as he looks at his plate of finest cuts of meat, steamed vegetables, and sauce.

“I see your cook is familiar with French cuisine!” The man beside Dr Katsuki says to Mrs Olding and takes a bite. “Ah!” He exclaims in delight. “Excellent, indeed.”

“Have you ever tried French cuisine, Dr Katsuki?” A young professor on Victor’s side of the table asks curiously. “Is it known in Japan?”

“For those who do not know,” Professor Olding says and clears his throat, “Dr Katsuki has come to us all the way from Japan. And his companion, Mr Chulanont, is from Siam. Not from India, my friends!”

The entire table begins to laugh softly, and Victor is not sure why Professor Olding’s comment is entertaining them so much.

Dr Katsuki does not seem to react, merely turns his head towards the young professor on Victor’s side of the table ever so calmly. “It has only recently come to Japan,” he says. “Western food in general, that is.”

“What do the Japanese eat, Dr Katsuki?” Professor Olding’s mother croaks from the head of the table. “Is it true they eat grasshoppers?”

“Grasshoppers?” Miss Olding gasps and looks at Dr Katsuki with wide eyes. “Really?”

Dr Katsuki smiles softly and shakes his head. “No, that is a myth, I’m afraid. The Japanese enjoy a great variety of fish and vegetables, similar to the British. And rice, of course. But the dishes are smaller.”

“From many different plates and bowls, right?” The man beside Dr Katsuki asks, humming as Dr Katsuki confirms.

“Is that not quite the chaos on the table?” A woman beside Mrs Olding wants to know. “How do people know which bowls are theirs?”

“Many times, we have little trays and tables for each person,” Yuuri explains.

“They eat on the floor, you know,” Professor Olding explains and leans forward, as if to announce important news. “Kneeling.”

“Really?” Miss Olding gasps. “But it must be so uncomfortable! Are the Japanese too poor for chairs?”

Dr Katsuki meets her gaze, but not without glancing at Victor first. His eyes send a shiver down his spine.

“It is merely our custom,” he says. “Just as it is a custom in England to go to church on Sundays, for example.”

“That brings me to the next question,” the young professor says and leans forward, rudely so. “The Japanese don’t believe in God. My brother is a missionary, and he writes to me the most horrible things about Japan. Temples, shrines, and the like everywhere, people praying to animals, but very little success for the churches of our Lord. Tell me, Dr Katsuki, why are the Japanese so adamant about refusing God and our lord and saviour, Jesus Christ?”

“I believe this to be a quite inappropriate question, Sir,” Victor says before Dr Katsuki can even open his mouth. He puts his cutlery down and looks at the young professor. “For it is not true, as a matter of fact. The Japanese do not refuse God. They merely refuse to be pushed into the Christian faith by force. Furthermore, the Japanese do not pray to animals, but to gods of their own at the shrines. The temples that you mentioned are Buddhist ones – the very same that you can find in India. Both are an important part of the Japanese identity. To claim that the Japanese lead a godless existence is therefore not only a false accusation, but also a highly inappropriate one.”

It is the very kind of situation that Yakov has warned him about, knowing far too well of Victor’s inclination to speak his mind when he should not. But it is one thing to keep quiet, and another to let someone being unjustly insulted.

In particular by a man who should know better.

The young professor clears his throat. “Well, I was just saying that the Japanese should learn to turn away from superstition and to—”

“Superstition?” Victor interrupts him. “I fear that from their point of view, Christianity might also be viewed as superstition.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gentlemen,” Mrs Olding calls softly and smiles at them. “Please. There are ladies present.”

“Indeed,” Professor Olding says. “Both sides have a point, of course. But Dr Katsuki can surely answer for himself if he wishes to.”

“Thank you,” Dr Katsuki says with a small nod.

“Let us not forget that the Japanese are a rather peculiar people,” Professor Olding adds and picks up his cutlery again. “As far as we can tell, they avoid conversations about the true faith like the plague!”

The table erupts into soft laughter and the argument has been swept under the carpet, as if nothing had happened at all.

Victor glances at Dr Katsuki, and finds the man looking at him openly for the very first time that night. What he finds in the man’s eyes Victor cannot quite explain, for it certainly is not gratitude, but… genuine surprise.

“Say, Mr Nikiforov,” Professor Olding says, and Victor is forced to avert his gaze. “How are you finding our archives so far?”

No one addresses Dr Katsuki for the rest of the meal, as if everyone had been gawking enough at him, the conversations moving on to lighter topics. They leave the table soon after, moving to the library for cigars and games of cards, separate from the ladies that take tea and coffee in the drawing room. Victor knows where the evening will head from now on – there will be conversations about politics, money, and women, none of these topics of any interest to Victor. He would usually join for Chris’s sake, who is much more of a bon viveur than he is, but this time, his friend is occupied already. He sits on a sofa, talking to Mr Chulanont, most likely telling him the most fascinating story judging by the Siamese man’s expression. They are very much in their very own world, and Victor is sure that if they had been alone, Chris and Mr Chulanont would sit even closer together than they already do.

And then, there is Dr Katsuki, standing at the oriel window with a glass of whiskey in his hands, looking out into the night as if there were nothing more fascinating, nothing more captivating than the stars.

He is a captivating sight, too, Victor thinks to himself. Professor Olding calls him to join the group for a cigar or two, but Victor excuses himself, moving towards the oriel window, towards Dr Katsuki.

Something tells him he should not do so.

But Dr Katsuki looks up as he comes closer, and his intelligent, brown eyes study Victor attentively. “Mr Nikiforov.”

Victor bows his head. “May I join you, Dr Katsuki?”

“Please.” Dr Katsuki nods and moves a little to make space for Victor at the window. It would be a lovely place for some quiet reading, Victor thinks, hidden behind heavy curtains. Right now, it offers them at least some sort of privacy, away from prying eyes.

“Dr Katsuki, I would like to apologise for my behaviour during dinner,” Victor began, clasping his hands behind his back. “It was entirely inappropriate of me to speak for you. I hope you can forgive me.”

The corner of Dr Katsuki’s mouth twitches ever so slightly, and he bows his head for a moment, as if to contemplate on how to respond. He should not have been speaking up in Dr Katsuki’s stead, Victor thinks. For what, really, does he know about how the Japanese man views the accusations thrown at him? What right does he have to speak for him?

“I know that you meant well, Mr Nikiforov,” Dr Katsuki says then and lifts his gaze again. This time, his eyes are full of understanding. “There is nothing to forgive, really.”

Victor nods, but he finds that he cannot agree with the other man.

“They should not speak to you this way, Dr Katsuki,” he says, just as the men in the background laugh about some lewd joke one of them is telling.

Dr Katsuki shrugs, looking out of the window again. “I do not listen to them, Mr Nikiforov,” he says. “I know that to most, I am merely something interesting to look at. A curiosity, if you will.”

“You are not a curiosity to me,” Victor says softly.

Dr Katsuki turns his head, looking at Victor in what appears to be utter disbelief mixed with wonder, and for a moment, Victor is sure the other man can see right into him, into his soul. That is what his eyes are doing to him, he thinks. They fixate him right where he stands, make him unable to move, unable to think, until judgement has been passed on him.

“How do you know so much about Japanese culture?” Dr Katsuki asks then, his voice soft and calm. “Everything you said during dinner was correct. That is rare. Especially here in Britain.”

Victor feels himself blush. “My father was an avid traveller when he was young,” he explains. “He once went to Japan, too. He sent my mother and I many letters.”

“I see,” Dr Katsuki says. “Your father must have very interesting stories to tell.”

“He had, yes,” Victor says and averts his gaze for a moment. “He passed away when I was young. And so did my mother.”

“I am very sorry,” Dr Katsuki says, and it sounds genuine despite the fact his face does not change in the slightest. “If it is of any comfort, I lost my parents, too, when I was young.”

Victor smiles lightly. “Something that we have in common, then.”

“It seems so, yes,” Dr Katsuki says softly and lets his gaze wander past Victor, back into the room. “But we built families of different kinds. Out of necessity, perhaps.”

Victor hums in slight disagreement. “But also because humans are not solitary creatures.”

Dr Katsuki chuckles at that, for some reason that Victor does not understand. “Indeed, they are not.”

His gaze falls onto Mr Chulanont, who is sitting beside Chris on the sofa with a drink in his hands that is still as full as when he first poured it. He is entirely focused on Chris, listening with utter fascination to the stories the Swiss man tells him.

“Your companion, Dr Giacometti,” Dr Katsuki says, “he often strikes me as a man who has never been satisfied.”

Victor raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry?”

“He is like my dear Phichit,” Dr Katsuki explains softly. “Always looking for a thrill. For fun. And nothing they ever find leaves them satisfied. They always keep looking, and looking.”

That is something that Victor can understand, and even if he has known Chris for a few weeks only, he can tell that Dr Katsuki is right. Chris is a bon viveur straight out of the book – always looking for entertainment, for laughter, for pleasure.

“But it seems to me that perhaps they have both now found what they have been looking for?” Victor suggests, glancing once more at their companions.

Dr Katsuki chuckles under his breath. “You mean, that their wits match? I fear that my dear Phichit is too young and too wild to know what it is that he is actually looking for. Dr Giacometti, on the other hand, knows it far too well. However, I fear that he does not quite understand the fire that he is playing with, there.”

He clears his throat as Mr Chulanont leans forward to whisper into Chris’ ear, and the Siamese moves back at once, as if pulled back by invisible strings. He turns his head, looking at Dr Katsuki apologetically before composing himself and shifting on his seat into a more appropriate posture.

It happens so fast that Chris, Victor realises, has probably not noticed much out of the ordinary.

“Mr Chulanont certainly seems like a force to be reckoned with,” Victor says with a small smile as it is Chris this time that leans forward and places his hand on Mr Chulanont’s arm. “But believe me, Dr Giacometti would never be that careless. He knows how to handle those that show clear interest in him.”

“Speaking of clear interest,” Dr Katsuki hums and brings his glass to his lips to take a sip. “Miss Olding seemed quite enraptured with you.”

Victor sighs softly. “I fear that I must dash her expectations,” he says, quietly enough so that Professor Olding does not hear him. “She may be a lovely girl, but I fear that romantic endeavours of any sort have never been my area of expertise. I have come to London for work. That is all.” He straightens his shoulders at that, knowing very well that he has neglected the work he has come for a little bit in the recent days.

“So she does not interest you,” Dr Katsuki concludes.

He finishes his glass, far too quickly for any grown man, but the alcohol does not seem to affect him much as he sets the glass down with a determination that tells Victor that the scholar is about to leave.

Has he said something wrong?

Dr Katsuki looks up at him then, and Victor’s heart skips a beat as the other man steps closer, a bit too close to be considered decent, perhaps, as the man’s hand comes to rest on top of his arm.

“I wonder what it is, then, that interests you, Mr Nikiforov.” 

Before Victor can reply, Dr Katsuki moves away and steps back into the light of the room, leaving Victor behind by the oriel window. He can hear Professor Olding exclaim his surprise at Dr Katsuki’s announcement that they must leave, and he sees Chris press a kiss to the back of Mr Chulanont, who looks as if he were torn away from the most precious thing known to man.

Without Dr Katsuki standing at his side, the room suddenly seems to full, too loud, and the air too thick with the smoke of the cigars.

The spot where Dr Katsuki has touched his arm seems to burn, even through the fabric of his coat.

Chris appears at his side with a full glass in each hand, passing one to Victor. “You look like you could need one,” he says, sighing in sympathy as Victor takes a large sip. “Are you alright?”

Victor nods quickly, downing the rest of the drink on one go, ignoring the almost violent burning of the alcohol in his throat. “You looked utterly bewitched over there with Mr Chulanont,” he says. “What were you talking about?”

Chris shrugs. “Oh, just this and that,” he says and takes a sip from his own glass. “How about you? I have never seen Dr Katsuki having a proper conversation with anyone. He usually keeps to himself.”

“I merely apologised to him for my outburst during dinner,” Victor explains, perhaps a little too defensively – for Chris raises an eyebrow and studies him curiously from head to toe.

“I do not know why,” he says then, and shoves a hand into his pocket, “but Dr Katsuki is rather peculiar. Not because he is Asian, but simply… because he is. What does that tell us about him, I do wonder.”

Peculiar is perhaps not the word that Victor would have chosen to describe Dr Katsuki, but he has to admit that the term fits. He is indeed a peculiar man; strange, mysterious, with a disarming nonchalance that is beyond comparison.

He is impossible to figure out.

And perhaps the very reason why he is what interests him so, Victor realises, and the truth sinks in like a rock to the bottom of the deepest ocean.


End file.
